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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 


IN    THE    DOORWAY,    SLABS1DES 


LITERARY  VALUES 


AND   OTHER    PAPERS 


BY 


JOHN  BURROUGHS 


:TY 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

£fic  flinersiDc  press,  CambriD0e 


LITERARY  VALUES 


LITERARY   VALUES 


T  MHE  day  inevitably  comes  to  every  writer  when 
he  must  take  his  place  amid  the  silent  throngs 
of  the  past,  when  no  new  work  from  his  pen  can  call 
attention  to  him  afresh,  when  the  partiality  of  his 
friends  no  longer  counts,  when  his  friends  and  ad 
mirers  are  themselves  gathered  to  the  same  silent 
throng,  and  the  spirit  of  the  day  in  which  he  wrote 
has  given  place  to  the  spirit  of  another  and  a  differ 
ent  day.  How,  oh,  how  will  it  fare  with  him  then  ? 
How  is  it  going  to  fare  with  Lowell  and  Longfellow 
and  Whittier  and  Emerson  and  all  the  rest  of  them  ? 
How  has  it  fared  with  so  many  names  in  the  past, 
that  were,  in  their  own  day,  on  all  men's  tongues  ? 
Of  the  names  just  mentioned,  Whittier  and  Emerson 
shared  more  in  a  particular  movement  of  thought 
and  morals  of  the  times  in  which  they  lived  than 
did  the  other  two,  and  to  that  extent  are  they  in 
danger  of  dropping  out  and  losing  their  vogue. 
Both  had  a  significance  to  their  own  day  and  genera- 


2  LITERARY  VALUES 

tion  that  they  can  hardly  have  to  any  other.  The 
new  times  will  have  new  soul  maladies  and  need 
other  soul  doctors.  The  fashions  of  this  world  pass 
away  —  fashions  in  thought,  in  style,  in  humor,  in 
morals,  as  well  as  in  anything  else. 

As  men  strip  for  a  race,  so  must  an  author  strip 
for  this  race  with  time.  All  that  is  purely  local  and 
accidental  in  him  will  only  impede  him  ;  all  that  is 
put  on  or  assumed  will  impede  him  —  his  affecta 
tions,  his  insincerities,  his  imitations  ;  only  what 
is  vital  and  real  in  him,  and  is  subdued  to  the  pro 
per  harmony  and  proportion,  will  count.  A  mal 
formed  giant  will  not  in  this  race  keep  pace  with  the 
lesser  but  better-built  stripling.  How  many  more 
learned  and  ponderous  tomes  has  Gilbert  White's  lit 
tle  book  left  behind  !  Mere  novelty,  how  short-lived 
is  that !  Every  age  will  have  its  own  novelties. 
Every  age  will  have  its  own  hobbies  and  hobby 
ists,  its  own  clowns,  its  own  follies  and  fashions 
and  infatuations.  What  every  age  will  not  have  in 
the  same  measure  is  sanity,  proportion,  health,  pen 
etration,  simplicity.  The  strained  and  overwrought, 
the  fantastic  and  far-fetched,  are  sure  to  drop  out. 
Every  pronounced  style,  like  Carlyle's,  is  sure  to 
suffer.  The  obscurities  and  affectations  of  some  re 
cent  English  poets  and  novelists  are  certain  to  drag 
them  down.  Browning,  with  his  sudden  leaps  and 
stops,  and  all  that  Italian  rubbish,  is  fearfully  han 
dicapped. 

Things  do  not  endure  in  this  world  without  a 
certain  singleness  and  continence.  Trees  do  not 


LITERARY   VALUES  3 

grow  and  stand  upright  without  a  certain  balance 
and  proportion.  A  man  does  not  live  out  half  his 
days  without  a  certain  simplicity  of  life.  Excesses, 
irregularities,  violences,  kill  him.  It  is  the  same 
with  books  —  they,  too,  are  under  the  same  law ; 
they  hold  the  gift  of  life  on  the  same  terms.  Only 
an  honest  book  can  live  ;  only  absolute  sincerity 
can  stand  the  test  of  time.  Any  selfish  or  second 
ary  motive  vitiates  a  work  of  art,  as  it  vitiates  a 
religious  life.  Indeed,  I  doubt  if  we  fully  appreci 
ate  the  literary  value  of  the  staple,  fundamental  hu 
man  virtues  and  qualities  —  probity,  directness,  sim 
plicity,  sincerity,  love.  There  is  just  as  much  room 
and  need  for  the  exercise  of  these  qualities  in  the 
making  of  a  book  as  in  the  building  of  a  house,  or 
in  a  business  career.  How  conspicuous  they  are  in 
all  the  enduring  books  —  in  Bunyan,  in  Walton,  in 
Defoe,  in  the  Bible !  It  is  they  that  keep  alive 
such  a  book  as  "  Two  Years  before  the  Mast,'7  which 
Stevenson  pronounced  the  best  sea-story  in  the  lan 
guage,  as  it  undoubtedly  is.  None  of  Stevenson's 
books  have  quite  this  probity  and  singleness  of  pur 
pose,  or  show  this  effacement  of  the  writer  by  the 
man.  It  might  be  said  that  our  interest  in  such 
books  is  not  literary  at  all,  but  purely  human,  like 
our  interest  in  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  or  in  life  and 
things  themselves.  The  experience  itself  of  a  sailor's 
life,  however,  would  be  to  most  of  us  very  prosy  and 
distasteful.  Hence  there  is  something  in  the  record, 
something  in  the  man  behind  the  record,  that  col 
ors  his  pages,  and  that  is  the  source  of  our  interest. 


4  LITERARY   VALUES 

This  personal  element,  this  flavor  of  character,  is  the 
salt  of  literature.      Without  it,  the  page  is  savorless. 

ii 

It  is  curious  what  an  uncertain  and  seemingly 
capricious  thing  literary  value  is.  How  often  it  re 
fuses  to  appear  when  diligently  sought  for,  labored 
for,  prayed  for  ;  and  then  comes  without  call  to 
some  simple  soul  that  never  gave  it  a  thought. 
Learning  cannot  compass  it,  rhetoric  cannot  compass 
it,  study  cannot  compass  it.  Mere  wealth  of  lan 
guage  is  entirely  inadequate.  It  is  like  religion : 
often  those  who  have  it  most  have  it  least,  and  those 
who  have  it  least  have  it  most.  In  the  works  of 
the  great  composers  —  Gibbon,  De  Quincey,  Macau- 
lay —  it  is  a  conscious,  deliberate  product.  Then, 
in  other  works,  the  very  absence  of  the  literary  mo 
tive  and  interest  gives  an  aesthetic  pleasure. 

One  is  surprised  to  read  the  remark  of  the  "  Sat 
urday  Review "  on  the  published  letters  of  Whit 
man,  —  letters  that  have  no  extrinsic  literary  value 
whatever,  not  one  word  of  style,  —  namely,  that 
few  books  are  so  well  calculated  to  "  purge  the 
soul  of  nonsense  ; "  and  the  remark  of  the  fastidious 
Henry  James  on  the  same  subject,  that,  with  all 
their  enormities  of  the  common,  the  letters  are  pos 
itively  delightful.  Here,  again,  the  source  of  our 
interest  is  undoubtedly  in  the  personal  revelation,  — 
the  type  of  man  we  see  through  the  letters,  and  not  in 
any  wit  or  wisdom  lodged  in  the  letters  themselves. 

One  reader  seeks  religious  or  moral  values  alone 


LITERARY   VALUES  5 

in  the  works  he  reads  ;  another  seeks  scientific  or 
philosophical  values ;  another,  artistic  and  literary 
values  ;  others,  again,  purely  human  values.  No 
one,  I  think,  would  read  Scott  or  Dickens  for  purely 
artistic  values,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  it  seems 
to  me  that  one  would  go  to  Mr.  James  or  to  Mr. 
Ho  wells  for  little  else.  One  might  read  Froude 
with  pleasure  who  had  little  confidence  in  him  as 
an  historian,  but  one  could  hardly  read  Freeman 
and  discount  him  in  the  same  way ;  one  might  have 
great  delight  in  Ruskin,  who  repudiated  much  of 
his  teaching. 

I  suppose  one  comes  to  like  plain  literature  as  he 
comes  to  like  plain  clothes,  plain  manners,  simple 
living.  What  grows  with  us  is  the  taste  for  the 
genuine,  the  real.  The  less  a  writer's  style  takes 
thought  of  itself,  the  better  we  like  it.  The  less 
his  dress,  his  equipage,  his  house,  concern  them 
selves  about  appearances,  the  more  we  are  pleased 
with  them.  Let  the  purpose  be  entirely  serious, 
and  let  the  seriousness  be  pushed  till  it  suggests  the 
heroic ;  that  is  what  we  crave  as  we  grow  older  and 
tire  of  the  vanities  and  shams  of  the  world. 

To  have  literary  value  is  not  necessarily  to  sug 
gest  books  or  literature  ;  it  is  to  possess  a  certain 
genuineness  and  seriousness  that  is  like  the  validity 
of  real  things.  See  how  much  better  literature  Lin 
coln's  speech  at  Gettysburg  is  than  the  more  elabo 
rate  and  scholarly  address  of  Everett  on  the  same 
occasion.  General  Grant's  "  Memoirs "  have  a 
higher  literary  value  than  those  of  any  other  gen- 


6  LITERARY  VALUES 

eral  in  our  Civil  War,  mainly  because  of  the  greater 
simplicity,  seriousness,  and  directness  of  the  person 
ality  they  reveal.  There  is  no  more  vanity  and 
make-believe  in  the  book  than  there  was  in  the  man. 
Any  touch  of  the  elemental,  of  the  veracity  and  sin 
gleness  of  the  natural  forces,  gives  value  to  a  man's 
utterances,  and  Lincoln  and  Grant  were  undoubtedly 
the  two  most  elemental  men  brought  out  by  the 
war.  The  literary  value  of  the  Bible,  doubtless, 
arises  largely  from  its  elemental  character.  The 
utterances  of  simple,  unlettered  men  —  farmers,  sail 
ors,  soldiers  —  often  have  great  force  and  impres- 
siveness  from  the  same  cause  ;  there  are  in  them 
the  virtue  and  seriousness  of  real  things.  One  great 
danger  of  schools,  colleges,  libraries,  is  that  they 
tend  to  kill  or  to  overlay  this  elemental  quality  in 
a  man  —  to  make  the  poet  speak  from  his  culture 
instead  of  from  his  heart.  "  To  speak  in  literature 
with  the  perfect  rectitude  and  insouciance  of  the 
movement  of  animals  and  the  unimpeachableness 
of  the  sentiment  of  trees  in  the  woods  and  grass  by 
the  roadside,  is  the  flawless  triumph  of  art ;  "  and 
who  so  likely  to  do  this  as  the  simple,  unbookish 
man  ?  Hence  Sainte-Beuve  says  the  peasant  always 
has  style. 

In  fiction  the  literary  value  resides  in  several  dif 
ferent  things,  as  the  characterization,  the  action,  the 
plot,  and  the  style ;  sometimes  more  in  one,  some 
times  more  in  another.  In  Scott,  for  instance,  it  is 
found  in  the  characters  and  the  action  ;  the  style  is 
commonplace.  In  George  Eliot,  the  action,  the  dra- 


LITERARY   VALUES  7 

matic  power,  is  the  weakest  factor.  In  Mr.  How- 
ells  we  care  very  little  for  the  people,  but  the  art, 
the  style,  is  a  perpetual  delight.  In  Hawthorne  our 
pleasure,  again,  is  more  evenly  distributed.  In  Poe 
the  plot  and  the  style  interest  us.  In  Dickens  it 
is  the  character  and  the  action.  The  novelist  has 
many  strings  to  his  bow,  and  he  can  get  along  very 
well  without  style,  but  what  can  the  poet,  the  his 
torian,  the  essayist,  the  critic,  do  without  style  — 
that  is,  without  that  vital,  intimate,  personal  rela 
tion  between  the  man  and  his  language  which  seems 
to  be  the  secret  of  style  ?  The  true  poet  makes 
the  words  his  own  ;  he  fills  them  with  his  own 
quality,  though  they  be  the  common  property  of  all. 
This  is  why  language,  in  the  hands  of  the  born 
writer,  is  not  the  mere  garment  of  thought,  not  even 
a  perfectly  adjusted  and  transparent  garment,  as  a 
French  writer  puts  it.  It  is  a  garment  only  as  the 
body  is  the  garment  of  the  soul.  This  is  why  a 
writer  with  a  style  loses  so  much  in  a  translation, 
while  with  the  ordinary  composer  translation  is  lit 
tle  more  than  a  change  of  garments. 

I  should  say  that  the  literary  value  of  the  modern 
French  writers  and  critics  resides  more  in  their  style 
than  in  anything  else,  while  with  the  German  it  re 
sides  least  in  the  style ;  in  the  English  it  resides  in 
both  thought  and  style.  The  French  fall  below  the 
English  in  lyric  poetry,  because,  wrhile  the  French 
man  has  more  vanity,  he  has  less  egoism,  and  hence 
less  power  to  make  the  universe  speak  through  him. 
The  solitude  of  the  lyric  is  too  much  for  his  in- 


8  LITERARY   VALUES 

tensely  social  nature,  while  he  excels  in  the  light 
dramatic  forms  for  this  very  reason.  He  has  more 
power  of  intellectual  metamorphosis. 

Apart  from  style  and  the  other  qualities  I  have 
mentioned,  is  another  gift,  the  gift  of  narration  —  the 
story-teller's  gift,  which  novelists  have  in  varying 
degrees.  Probably  few  of  them  have  this  talent  in  so 
large  a  measure  as  Wilkie  Collins  had  it,  yet  this 
power  does  not  of  itself  seem  sufficient  to  save  his 
work  from  oblivion.  Still  apart  from  these  quali 
ties,  and  of  high  literary  worth,  and  apart  from  the 
attractiveness  of  the  subject  matter,  is  the  power  to 
interest.  Can  you  interest  me  in  what  you  have  to 
say,  by  your  manner  of  saying  it  ?  This  is  one  of 
the  most  intimate  and  personal  gifts  of  all.  No 
matter  what  the  subject,  some  writers,  like  some 
speakers,  catch  our  attention  at  once,  and  hold  it  to 
the  end.  They  appear  to  be  telling  us  some  import 
ant  bit  of  news  which  they  are  in  a  hurry  to  be  de 
livered  of.  No  time  or  words  are  wasted.  There 
is  something  special  and  imminent  in  the  look  and 
tone.  The  sentences  are  definitely  aimed.  The 
man  knows  what  he  wants  to  say  and  is  himself 
interested  in  it.  His  mind  is  not  somnolent  or 
stagnant ;  the  style  is  specific  and  direct  —  no  be 
numbing  effects  of  vague  and  featureless  generaliza 
tions.  The  thoughts  move,  they  make  a  current, 
and  the  reader  quickly  yields  himself  to  it.  How 
soon  we.  tire  of  the  mumbling,  soliloquizing  style, 
where  the  writer  seems  talking  to  himself.  He 
must  talk  to  his  reader  and  must  catch  his  eye. 


LITERARY   VALUES  9 

Then  those  dead-level  sentences  that  seem  to  re 
turn  forever  into  themselves,  that  have  no  direction 
or  fall,  that  do  not  point  and  hurry  to  some  definite 
conclusion,  —  we  soon  yawn  over  these  too. 

What  rare  power  the  late  Henry  George  had  to 
invest  his  subject  with  interest !  What  a  current  in 
his  book  "Progress  and  Poverty  "  !  — While  it  seems 
to  me  that  in  his  "  Social  Evolution "  Benjamin 
Kidd  suffers  from  the  want  of  this  talent ;  I  do  not 
get  the  full  force  of  his  periods  at  the  first  reading. 

in 

Literature  abounds  in  attempts  to  define  literature. 
One  of  the  most  strenuous  and  thorough-going  defi 
nitions  I  have  seen  has  lately  been  published  by  one 
of  our  college  professors  —  it  is  a  most  determined 
attempt  to  corral  the  whole  subject.  "  Nothing  be 
longs  to  real  literature,"  says  the  professor,  "  unless 
it  consists  of  written  words  that  constitute  a  carrying 
statement  which  makes  sense,  arranged  rhythmically, 
euphoniously,  and  harmoniously,  and  so  chosen  as  to 
connote  an  adequate  number  of  ideas  and  things,  the 
suggestion  of  which  will  call  up  in  the  reader  sus 
tained  emotions  which  do  not  produce  undue  ten 
sion,  and  in  which  the  element  of  pleasure  predomi 
nates,  on  the  whole,  over  that  of  pain.  Practically," 
the  writer  goes  on  to  say,  "  every  word  of  this  de 
scription  should  be  kept  in  our  minds,  so  that  we 
may  consciously  apply  it  as  a  test  to  any  piece  of 
writing  about  the  literary  character  of  which  we  are 
in  doubt." 


10  LITERARY  VALUES 

Fancy  a  reader,  in  his  quest  for  the  real  article, 
going  about  with  this  drag-net  of  a  paragraph  in  his 
mind.  Will  the  definition  or  description  bear  turning 
around  upon  itself  ?  Is  it  a  good  sample  of  literary 
art  ?  The  exactness  and  literalness  of  science  are 
seldom  permissible  in  literature.  That  a  definition 
of  anything  may  have  literary  value  it  must  possess 
a  certain  indirect  and  imaginative  character,  as  when 
Carlyle  defined  poetry  as  the  heroic  of  speech.  Con 
trast  with  the  above  John  Morley's  definition  of  lit 
erature  :  "  All  the  books  —  and  they  are  not  so 
many  —  where  moral  truth  and  human  passion  are 
touched  with  a  certain  largeness,  sanity,  and  attrac 
tion  of  form."  This  is  much  better  literature,  be 
cause  the  language  is  much  more  flexible  and  imagi 
native.  It  imparts  more  warmth  to  the  mind  ;  it  is 
more  suggestive,  while  as  a  literary  touchstone  it  is 
just  as  available. 

Good  literature  may  be  a  much  simpler  thing 
than  our  teachers  would  lead  us  to  believe.  The 
prattle  of  a  child  may  have  rare  literary  value.  The 
little  Parisian  girl  who,  when  asked  by  a  lady  the 
price  of  the  trinkets  she  offered  for  sale,  replied, 
"  Judge  for  yourself,  madam  ;  I  have  tasted  no  food 
since  yesterday,"  expressed  herself  with  consum 
mate  art.  If  she  had  said  simply,  "  Whatever  your 
ladyship  pleases  to  give,"  her  reply  would  have 
been  graceful,  but  commonplace.  By  the  personal 
turn  which  she  gave  it,  she  added  almost  a  lyrical 
touch.  When  Thackeray  changed  the  title  of  one 
of  his  novels  from  "  Scenes  from  Town  Life,"  or 


LITERARY  VALUES  11 

some  such  title,  to  "  Vanity  Fair,"  he  achieved  a 
stroke  of  art.  It  is  said  that  a  now  famous  line  of 
Keats  was  first  written  thus : 

"  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  continual  joy." 

How  the  effect  of  the  line  was  heightened  hy  the 
change  of  one  word,  and  itself  became  "  a  joy  for 
ever."  Poe,  too,  altered  two  lines  of  his  with  like 
magical  effect,  when  for 

"  To  the  beauty  of  fair  Greece, 
And  the  grandeur  of  old  Rome," 

he  wrote : 

"  To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 

And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome." 

The  phrase  "  well  of  pure  English  "  conveys  the 
same  idea  as  "  well  of  English  undefiled,"  hut  how 
much  greater  the  artistic  value  of  the  latter  than  of 
the  former !  Thus  the  literary  value  of  a  sentence 
may  turn  upon  a  single  word. 

The  everyday  speech  of  the  people  is  often  full 
of  the  stun7  of  which  literature  is  made.  No  poet 
could  invent  better  epithets  and  phrases  than  abound 
in  the  common  vernacular.  The  sayings  and  pro 
verbs  of  a  people  are  also,  for  the  most  part,  of  the 
pure  gold  of  literature. 

One  trouble  with  all  definitions  of  literature  is 
that  they  proceed  upon  the  theory  that  literature  is 
a  definite  something  that  may  be  determined  by  de 
finite  tests  like  gold  or  silver,  whereas  it  is  more 
like  life  or  nature  itself.  It  is  not  so  much  some 
thing  as  the  visible  manifestation  of  something ;  it 


12  LITERARY  VALUES 

assumes  infinite  forms,  and  is  of  infinite  degrees  of 
potency.  There  is  great  literature,  and  there  is  fee 
ble  and  commonplace  literature  :  a  romance  by  Haw 
thorne  and  a  novel  by  Haggard ;  a  poem  by  Tenny 
son  and  a  poem  by  Tupper ;  an  essay  by  Emerson 
and  an  essay  by  John  Foster  —  all  literature,  all 
touching  the  emotions  and  the  imagination  with 
varying  degrees  of  power,  and  yet  separated  by  a 
gulf.  There  are  no  degrees  of  excellence  in  gold  or 
silver,  but  there  are  all  degrees  of  excellence  in  lit 
erature.  How  hard  it  is  to  tell  what  makes  a  true 
poem,  a  lasting  poem !  When  one  asks  himself 
what  it  is,  how  many  things  arise,  how  hard  to  nar 
row  the  list  down  to  a  few  things  !  Is  it  beauty  ? 
Then  what  is  beauty  ?  One  meets  with  beautiful 
poems  every  day  that  he  never  thinks  of  or  recurs 
to  again.  It  is  certain  that  without  one  thing  there 
is  no  real  poetry  —  genuine  passion.  The  fire  came 
down  out  of  heaven  and  consumed  Elijah's  offering 
because  Elijah  was  sincere.  Plan  and  build  your 
poem  never  so  deftly,  mankind  will  not  permanently 
care  for  it  unless  it  has  genuine  feeling.  It  must 
be  impassioned. 

The  genus  Literature  includes  many  species,  as 
novels,  poems,  essays,  histories,  etc.,  but  our  busi 
ness  with  them  all  is  about  the  same  —  they  are 
books  that  we  read  for  their  own  sake.  We  read 
the  papers  for  the  news,  we  read  a  work  of  science 
for  the  facts  and  the  conclusions,  but  a  work  of  lit 
erature  is  an  end  in  and  of  itself.  We  read  it  for 
the  pleasure  and  the  stimulus  it  affords  us,  apart  from 


LITERARY  VALUES  13 

any  other  consideration.  It  exhibits  such  a  play 
of  mind  and  emotion  upon  the  facts  of  life  and  na 
ture  as  results  in  our  own  mental  and  spiritual  en 
richment  and  edification. 

Another  thing  is  true  of  the  best  literature :  we 
cannot  separate  our  pleasure  and  profit  in  the  sub 
ject-matter  from  our  pleasure  and  profit  in  the  per 
sonality  of  the  writer.  We  do  not  know  whether 
it  is  Hawthorne  himself  that  we  most  delight  in,  or 
his  style  and  the  characters  and  the  action  of  his 
romance.  One  thing  is  quite  certain  :  where  there  is 
no  distinct  personal  flavor  to  the  page,  no  stamp  of  a 
new  individual  force,  we  soon  tire  of  it.  The  savor 
of  every  true  literary  production  comes  from  the 
man  himself.  Hence,  without  attempting  a  formal 
definition  of  literature,  one  may  say  that  the  literary 
quality  seems  to  arise  from  a  certain  vital  relation  of 
the  writer  with  subject-matter.  It  is  his  subject ;  it 
blends  with  the  very  texture  of  his  mind ;  his  rela 
tion  to  it  is  primary  and  personal,  not  secondary  and 
mechanical.  The  secret  is  not  in  any  prescribed 
arrangement  of  the  words  —  it  is  in  the  quality 
of  mind  or  spirit  that  warms  the  words  and  shines 
through  them.  A  good  book,  says  Milton,  is  the 
precious  life-blood  of  a  master  spirit.  Unless  there 
is  blood  in  it,  unless  the  vital  currents  of  a  rare 
spirit  flow  through  it  and  vivify  it,  it  has  not  the 
gift  of  life. 

In  all  good  literature  we  have  a  sense  of  touching 
something  alive  and  real.  The  writer  uses  words 
not  as  tools  or  appliances ;  they  are  more  like  his 


14  LITERARY   VALUES 

hand  or  his  eye  or  his  ear  —  the  living,  palpable 
body  of  his  thought,  the  incarnation  of  his  spirit. 

The  true  writer  always  establishes  intimate  and 
personal  relations  with  his  reader.  He  comes  forth, 
he  is  not  concealed ;  he  is  immanent  in  his  words, 
we  feel  him,  our  spirits  touch  his  spirit. 

Style  in  letters  is  a  quality  of  mind  —  a  certain 
flavor  imparted  to  words  by  the  personality  back 
of  them.  Pass  language  through  one  mind  and  it 
is  tasteless  and  colorless ;  pass  it  through  another, 
and  it  acquires  an  entirely  new  value  and  signifi 
cance  and  gives  us  a  unique  pleasure.  In  the  one 
case  the  sentences  are  artificial ;  in  the  other  they 
bud  and  sprout  out  of  the  man  himself  as  naturally 
as  the  plants  and  trees  out  of  the  soil. 

There  is  nothing  else  in  the  world  so  sensitive 
and  chameleon-like  as  language ;  it  takes  on  at  once 
the  hue  and  quality  of  the  mind  that  uses  it.  See 
how  neutral  and  impersonal,  or  old  and  worn  and 
faded  the  words  look  in  the  pages  of  some  writers, 
then  see  how  drastic  or  new  and  individual  they 
become  when  a  mind  of  another  type  marshals  them 
into  sentences.  What  vigor  and  life  in  them  !  they 
seem  to  have  been  newly  coined  since  we  last  met 
them.  It  is  the  test  of  a  writer's  real  worth  —  does 
the  language  tarnish,  as  it  were,  in  his  hand,  or  is  it 
brightened  and  freshened  in  his  use  ? 

A  book  may  contain  valuable  truths  and  sound 
sentiments  of  universal  appeal,  but  if  the  literary 
coinage  is  feeble,  if  the  page  is  not  strongly  individu 
alized,  freshly  and  clearly  stamped  by  the  purpose 


LITERARY   VALUES  15 

of  the  writer,  it  cannot  take  rank  as  good  litera 
ture.  To  become  literature,  truth  must  be  perpet 
ually  reborn,  reincarnated,  and  begin  life  anew. 

A  successful  utterance  always  has  value,  always 
has  truth,  though  in  its  purely  intellectual  aspects  it 
may  not  correspond  with  the  truth  as  we  see  it.  I 
cannot  accept  all  of  Buskin's  views  upon  our  civili 
zation  or  all  of  Tolstoi's  upon  art,  yet  I  see  that 
they  speak  the  truth  as  it  defines  itself  to  their 
minds  and  feelings.  A  counter-statement  may  be 
equally  true.  The  struggle  for  existence  goes  on  in 
the  ideal  world  as  well  as  in  the  real.  The  strong 
est  mind,  the  fittest  statement,  survives  for  the  time 
being.  That  a  system  of  philosophy  or  religion 
perishes  or  is  laid  aside  is  not  because  it  is  not  or 
was  not  true,  but  because  it  is  not  true  to  the  new 
minds  and  under  the  new  conditions.  It  no  longer 
expresses  what  the  world  thinks  and  feels.  It  is 
outgrown.  Was  not  Calvinism  true  to  our  fathers  ? 
It  is  no  longer  true  to  us  because  we  were  born  at  a 
later  day  in  the  world.  With  regard  to  truths  of 
science,  we  may  say,  once  a  truth  always  a  truth, 
because  the  world  of  fact  and  of  things  is  always 
under  the  same  law,  but  the  truth  of  sentiments  and 
emotions  changes  with  changing  minds  and  hearts. 
The  tree  of  life,  unlike  all  other  trees,  bears  differ 
ent  fruit  to  each  generation.  What  our  fathers 
found  nourishing  and  satisfying  in  religion,  in  art, 
in  philosophy,  we  find  tasteless  and  stale.  Every 
gospel  has  its  day.  The  moral  and  intellectual  hori 
zon  of  the  race  is  perpetually  changing. 


16  LITERARY   VALUES 

IV 

In  our  modern  democratic  communities  the  moral 
sense  is  no  doubt  higher  than  it  was  in  the  earlier 
ages,  while  the  artistic  or  aesthetic  sense  is  lower. 
In  the  Athenian  the  artistic  sense  was  far  above  the 
moral ;  in  the  Puritan  the  reverse  was  the  case. 
The  Latin  races  seem  to  have  a  greater  genius  for 
art  than  the  Teutonic,  while  the  latter  excel  in  vir 
tue.  In  this  country,  good  taste  exists  in  streaks 
and  spots,  or  sporadically  here  and  there.  There 
does  not  seem  to  be  enough  to  go  around,  or  the 
supply  is  intermittent.  One  writer  has  it  and  an 
other  has  it  not,  or  one  has  it  to-day  and  not  to-mor 
row  ;  one  moment  he  writes  with  grace  and  simpli 
city,  the  next  he  falls  into  crudenesses  or  affectations. 
There  is  not  enough  leaven  to  leaven  the  whole 
lump.  Some  of  our  most  eminent  literary  men,  such 
as  Lowell  and  Dr.  Holmes,  are  guilty  of  occasional 
lapses  from  good  taste,  and  probably  in  the  work  of 
none  of  them  do  we  see  the  thorough  ripening  and 
mellowing  of  taste  that  mark  the  productions  of 
the  older  and  more  centralized  European  communi 
ties.  One  of  our  college  presidents,  writing  upon  a 
serious  ethical  subject,  allows  himself  such  rhetoric  as 
this :  "  Experiment  and  inference  are  the  hook  and 
line  by  which  Science  fishes  the  dry  formulas  out  of 
the  fluid  fact.  Art,  on  the  other  hand,  undertakes  to 
stock  the  stream  with  choice  specimens  of  her  own 
breeding  and  selection."  We  can  hardly  say  of  such 
metaphors  what  Sainte-Beuve  said  of  Montaigne's, 
namely,  that  they  are  of  the  kind  that  are  never  "  de- 


LITERARY  VALUES  17 

tached  from  the  thought,"  but  that  they  "  seize  it 
in  its  very  centre,  in  its  interior,  and  join  and  bind 
it." 

v 

The  keener  appreciation  in  Europe  of  literature 
as  a  fine  art  is  no  doubt  the  main  reason  why  Poe 
is  looked  upon  over  there  as  our  most  noteworthy 
poet.  Poe  certainly  had  a  more  consummate  art 
than  any  other  American  singer,  and  his  productions 
are  more  completely  the  outcome  of  that  art.  They 
are  literary  feats.  "  The  Eaven "  was  as  deliber 
ately  planned  and  wrought  out  as  is  any  piece  of 
mechanism.  Its  inspiration  is  verbal  and  technical. 
"  The  truest  poetry  is  most  feigning,"  says  Touch 
stone,  and  this  is  mainly  the  conception  of  poetry 
that  prevails  in  European  literary  circles.  Poe's 
poetry  is  artistic  feigning,  like  good  acting.  It  is 
to  that  extent  disinterested.  He  does  not  speak 
for  himself,  but  for  the  artistic  spirit.  He  has 
never  been  popular  in  this  country,  for  the  reason 
that  art,  as  such,  is  far  less  appreciated  here  than 
abroad.  The  stress  of  life  here  is  upon  the  moral 
and  intellectual  elements  much  more  than  upon  the 
aesthetic.  We  demand  a  message  of  the  poet,  or 
that  he  shall  teach  us  how  to  live.  Poe  had  no 
message  but  that  of  art ;  he  made  no  contribution 
to  our  stock  of  moral  ideas  ;  he  made  no  appeal  to 
the  conscience  or  manhood  of  the  race ;  he  did  not 
touch  the  great  common  workaday  mind  of  our  peo 
ple.  He  is  more  akin  to  the  Latin  than  to  the  Anglo- 


18  LITERARY   VALUES 

Saxon.  Hence  his  deepest  impression  seems  to  have 
been  made  upon  the  French  mind.  In  all  our  New 
England  poets  the  voice  of  humanity,  of  patriot 
ism,  of  religious  ideas,  of  strenuous  moral  purpose, 
speaks.  Art  is  subordinated  to  various  human  pas 
sions  and  emotions.  In  Poe  alone  are  these  emo 
tions  subordinated  to  art.  In  Poe  alone  is  the 
effort  mainly  a  verbal  and  technical  one.  In  him 
alone  is  the  man  lost  in  the  artist.  To  evoke  music 
from  language  is  his  constant  aim.  No  other  Ameri 
can  poet  approaches  him  in  this  kind  of  verbal  mastery, 
in  this  unfettered  creative  technical  power.  In  ease, 
in  splendor,  in  audacity,  he  is  like  a  bird.  One 
may  understand  and  admire  him  and  not  be  touched 
by  him.  To  be  moved  to  anything  but  admiration 
is  foreign  to  pure  art.  Would  one  make  meat  and 
drink  of  it?  Our  reading  is  selfish,  we  seek  our 
own,  we  are  drawn  to  the  book  that  is  going  our 
way.  Can  we  appreciate  beyond  our  own  personal 
tastes  and  needs  ?  Can  we  see  the  excellence  of  the 
impersonal  and  the  disinterested  ?  We  want  to  be 
touched  in  some  special  and  intimate  way  ;  but  art 
touches  us  in  a  general  and  impersonal  way.  No 
one  could  take  to  himself  Shakespeare,  or  Milton's 
"  Lycidas,"  or  Keats's  odes  as  directed  especially 
to  his  own  personal  wants  and  aspirations.  We  for 
get  ourselves  in  reading  these  things,  and  share  for 
the  time  the  sentiment  of  pure  art,  which  lives  in 
the  universal.  How  crude  the  art  of  Whittier  com 
pared  with  that  of  Poe,  and  yet  Whittier  has  touched 
and  moved  his  countrymen,  and  Poe  has  not.  There 


LITERARY   VALUES  19 

is  much  more  of  the  substance  of  character,  of  pa 
triotism,  of  strenuous  New  England  life,  in  the  one 
than  in  the  other.  "  Snow-Bound  "  is  a  metrical 
transcript  from  experience ;  not  a  creation  of  the 
imagination,  but  a  touched-up  copy  from  the  mem 
ory.  We  cannot  say  this  of  "  The  Bells  "  or  "  The 
Raven,"  or  of  the  work  of  Milton  or  Keats  or  Ten 
nyson.  Whittier  sings  what  he  feels  ;  it  all  has  a 
root  in  his  own  experience.  The  great  poet  feigns 
the  emotion  and  makes  it  real  to  us. 

We  complain  of  much  current  verse  that  it  has 
no  feeling.  The  trouble  is  not  that  the  poets  feign, 
but  that  the  feigning  is  feeble  ;  it  begets  no  emo 
tion  in  us.  It  simulates,  but  does  not  stimulate. 

It  is  not  Wordsworth's  art  that  makes  him  great ; 
it  is  his  profound  poetic  emotion  when  in  the  pre 
sence  of  simple,  common  things.  Tennyson's  art,  or 
Swinburne's  art,  is  much  finer,  but  the  poetic  emo 
tion  back  of  it  is  less  profound  and  elemental. 

Emerson's  art  is  crude,  but  the  stress  of  his  poetic 
emotion  is  great ;  the  song  is  burdened  with  pro 
found  meanings  to  our  moral  and  spiritual  nature. 
Poe  has  no  such  burden ;  there  is  not  one  crumb  of 
the  bread  of  life  in  him,  but  there  is  plenty  of  the 
elixir  of  the  imagination. 

This  passion  for  art,  so  characteristic  of  the  Old 
World,  is  seen  in  its  full  force  in  such  a  writer  as 
Flaubert.  Flaubert  was  a  devotee  of  the  doctrine 
of  art  for  art's  sake.  He  cared  nothing  for  mere 
authors,  but  only  for  "  writers  ;  "  the  work  must  be 
the  conscious  and  deliberate  product  of  the  author's 


20  LITERARY   VALUES 

literary  and  inventive  powers,  and  in  no  way  in 
volve  his  character,  temperament,  or  personality. 
The  more  it  was  written,  the  more  it  savored  of  de 
liberate  plan  and  purpose,  —  in  other  words,  the  less 
it  was  the  product  of  fate,  race,  or  of  anything  local, 
individual,  inevitable,  —  the  more  it  pleased  him. 
Art,  and  not  nature,  was  his  aspiration.  And  this 
view  has  more  currency  in  Europe  than  in  this 
country.  In  some  extreme  cases  it  becomes  what 
one  may  fairly  call  the  art  disease.  Baudelaire,  for 
instance,  as  quoted  by  Tolstoi,  expressed  a  prefer 
ence  for  a  painted  woman's  face  over  one  showing 
its  natural  color,  "  and  for  metal  trees  and  a  theatri 
cal  imitation  of  water,  rather  than  real  trees  and 
real  water."  Thus  does  an  overweening  passion  for 
art  degenerate  into  a  love  for  the  artificial  for  its 
own  sake.  In  the  cultivation  of  letters  there  seems 
always  to  be  a  danger  that  we  shall  come  to  value 
things,  not  for  their  own  sake,  but  for  the  literary 
effects  that  may  be  wrought  out  of  them.  The 
great  artist,  I  take  it,  is  primarily  in  love  with  life 
and  things,  and  not  with  art.  On  these  terms  alone 
is  his  work  fresh  and  stimulating  and  filled  with 
good  arterial  blood. 

VI 

Teaching  literature  is  like  teaching  religion. 
You  can  give  only  the  dry  bones  of  the  matter  in 
either  case.  But  the  dry  bones  of  theology  are  not 
religion,  and  the  dry  bones  of  rhetoric  are  not  liter 
ature.  The  flesh-and-blood  reality  is  alone  of  value, 


LITERARY   VALUES  21 

and  this  cannot  be  taught,  it  must  be  felt  and  ex 
perienced. 

The  class  in  literature  studies  an  author's  sen 
tence  -  structure  and  paragraphing,  and  doubtless 
could  tell  the  author  more  about  it  than  he  knows 
himself.  The  probabilities  are  that  he  never 
thought  a  moment  about  his  sentence-structure  or 
his  paragraphing.  He  has  thought  only  of  his  sub 
ject-matter  and  how  to  express  himself  clearly  and 
forcibly  ;  the  structure  of  his  sentences  takes  care 
of  itself.  From  every  art  certain  rules  and  princi 
ples  may  be  deduced,  but  the  intelligent  apprehen 
sion  of  those  rules  and  principles  no  more  leads  to 
mastery  in  that  art,  or  even  helps  to  mastery  in  it, 
than  a  knowledge  of  the  anatomy  and  the  vital 
processes  of  the  stomach  helps  a  man  to  digest  his 
dinner,  or  than  the  knowledge  of  the  gunsmith 
helps  make  a  good  marksman.  In  other  words  the 
science  of  any  art  is  of  little  use  to  him  who  would 
practice  that  art.  To  be  a  fiddler  you  must  fiddle 
and  see  others  fiddle ;  to  be  a  painter  you  must  paint 
and  study  the  painting  of  others ;  to  be  a  writer 
you  must  write  and  familiarize  yourself  with  the 
works  of  the  best  authors.  Studying  an  author 
from  the  outside  by  bringing  the  light  of  rhetoric  to 
bear  upon  him  is  of  little  profit.  We  must  get  in 
side  of  him,  and  we  can  only  get  inside  of  him 
through  sympathy  and  appreciation.  There  is  only 
one  way  to  teach  literature,  only  one  vital  way,  and 
that  is  by  reading  it.  The  laboratory  way  may 
give  one  the  dry  bones  of  the  subject,  but  not  the 


22  LITERARY   VALUES 

living  thing  itself.  If  the  teacher,  by  his  own  liv 
ing  voice  and  an  occasional  word  of  comment,  can 
bring  out  the  soul  of  a  work,  he  may  help  the  stu 
dent's  appreciation  of  it ;  he  may,  in  a  measure,  im 
part  to  him  his  own  larger  and  more  intelligent 
appreciation  of  it.  Arid  that  is  a  true  service. 

Young  men  and  young  women  actually  go  to  col 
lege  to  take  a  course  in  Shakespeare  or  Chaucer  or 
Dante  or  the  Arthurian  legends.  The  course  be 
comes  a  mere  knowledge  course,  as  Professor  Corson 
suggests.  My  own  first  acquaintance  with  Milton  was 
through  an  exercise  in  grammar.  We  parsed  "  Par 
adise  Lost."  Much  of  the  current  college  study  of 
Shakespeare  is  little  better  than  parsing  him.  The 
minds  of  the  pupils  are  focused  upon  every  word 
and  line  of  the  text,  as  the  microscope  is  focused 
upon  a  fly's  foot  in  the  laboratory.  The  class  prob 
ably  dissects  a  frog  or  a  star-fish  one  day,  and  a 
great  poet  the  next,  and  it  does  both  in  about  the 
same  spirit.  It  falls  upon  one  of  these  great  plays 
like  hens  upon  a  bone  in  winter  :  no  meaning  of 
word  or  phrase  escapes  it,  every  line  is  literally  picked 
to  pieces  ;  but  of  the  poet  himself,  of  that  which  makes 
him  what  he  is,  his  tremendous  dramatic  power, 
how  much  do  the  students  get  ?  Very  little,  I  fear. 
They  have  had  an  intellectual  exercise  and  not 
an  emotional  experience.  They  have  added  to  their 
knowledge,  but  have  not  taken  a  step  in  culture. 
To  dig  into  the  roots  and  origins  of  the  great  poets 
is  like  digging  into  the  roots  of  an  oak  or  a  maple, 
the  better  to  increase  your  appreciation  of  the  beauty 


LITERARY   VALUES  23 

of  the  tree.  There  stands  the  tree  in  all  its  sum 
mer  glory  ;  will  you  really  know  it  any  better  after 
you  have  laid  bare  every  root  and  rootlet  ?  There 
stand  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Dante,  Homer.  Bead 
them,  give  yourself  to  them,  and  master  them  if 
you  are  man  enough.  The  poets  are  not  to  be  ana 
lyzed,  they  are  to  be  enjoyed  ;  they  are  not  to  be 
studied,  but  to  be  loved ;  they  are  not  for  knowledge, 
but  for  culture  —  to  enhance  our  appreciation  of  life 
and  our  mastery  over  its  elements.  All  the  mere  facts 
about  a  poet's  work  are  as  chaff  compared  with  the 
appreciation  of  one  fine  line  or  fine  sentence.  Why 
study  a  great  poet  at  all  after  the  manner  of  the 
dissecting-room  ?  Why  not  rather  seek  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  his  living  soul  and  to  feel  its  power  ? 
The  mere  study  of  words,  too,  —  of  their  origin 
and  history,  or  of  the  relation  of  your  own  language 
to  some  other,  —  how  little  that  avails  !  As  little 
as  a  knowledge  of  the  making  and  tempering  of  a 
sword  would  help  a  man  to  be  a  good  swordsman. 
What  avails  in  literature  is  a  quick  and  delicate 
sense  of  the  life  and  individuality  of  words  —  "  a 
sense  practiced  as  a  blind  man's  touch,"  or  as  a 
musician's  ear,  so  that  the  magic  of  the  true  style 
is  at  once  felt  and  appreciated ;  this,  and  an  equally 
quick  and  delicate  sense  of  the  life  and  individuality 
of  things.  "  Is  there  any  taste  in  the  white  of  an 
egg  ?  "  No  more  is  there  in  much  merely  correct 
writing.  There  is  the  use  of  language  as  the  vehicle 
of  knowledge,  and  there  is  the  use  of  it  as  an  in 
strument  of  the  imagination.  In  Wordsworth's  line, 


24  LITERARY   VALUES 

"  The  last  to  parley  with  the  setting  sun," 
in  Whitman's  sentence, 

"  Oh,  waves,  I  have  fingered  every  shore  with  you," 
in  Emerson's  description  of  an  Indian-summer  day, 
"  the  day,  immeasurably  long,  sleeps  over  the  broad 
hills  and  warm,  wide  fields  "  —  in  these  and  such 
as  these  we  see  the  imaginative  use  of  words. 

Most  of  the  Dantean  and  Homeric  and  Shake 
spearean  scholarship  is  the  mere  dust  of  time  that 
has  accumulated  upon  these  names.  In  the  course 
of  years  it  will  accumulate  upon  Tennyson,  and 
then  we  shall  have  Tennysonian  scholars  and  learned 
dissertations  upon  some  insignificant  detail  of  his 
work.  Think  of  the  Shakespeareana  with  which  liter 
ature  is  burdened  !  It  is  mostly  mere  shop  litter 
and  dust.  In  certain  moods  I  think  one  may  be 
pardoned  for  feeling  that  Shakespeare  is  fast  becom 
ing  a  curse  to  the  human  race.  Of  mere  talk  about 
him,  it  seems,  there  is  to  be  no  end.  He  has  been 
the  host  of  more  literary  parasites  probably  than 
any  other  name  in  history.  He  is  edited  and  re- 
edited  as  if  a  cubit  could  be  added  to  his  stature  by 
marginal  notes  and  comments.  On  the  contrary, 
the  result  is,  for  the  most  part,  like  a  mere  growth 
of  underbrush  that  obscures  the  forest  trees.  The 
reader's  attention  is  being  constantly  diverted  from 
the  main  matter  —  he  is  being  whipped  in  the  face 
by  insignificant  twigs.  Criticism  may  prune  away 
what  obscures  a  great  author,  but  what  shall  we 
say  when  it  obstructs  the  view  of  him  by  a  multi 
tude  of  unimportant  questions  ? 


LITERARY   VALUES  25 

The  main  aim  of  the  teacher  of  literature  should 
be  to  train  and  quicken  the  student's  taste  —  his 
sense  of  the  fitness  and  proportion  of  things  —  till  he 
can  detect  the  true  from  the  false,  or  the  excellent 
from  the  common.  There  is  but  one  way  to  learn 
to  detect  the  genuine  from  the  counterfeit  in  any 
department  of  lif$,  and  that  is  by  experience.  Fa 
miliarize  the  student  with  the  works  of  the  real 
masters  of  literature  and  you  have  safeguarded  him 
against  the  pretenders.  After  he  has  become  ac 
quainted  with  the  look  and  the  ring  of  the  pure  gold 
he  is  less  likely  to  be  imposed  upon  by  the  counterfeit. 
The  end  here  indicated  cannot  be  reached  by  analy 
sis,  or  by  a  .course  in  rhetoric  and  sentence  struc 
ture,  or  by  a  microscopical  examination  of  the  writer's 
vocabulary,  but  by  direct  sympathetic  intercourse 
with  the  best  literature,  through  the  living  voice, 
or  through  your  own  silent  perusal  of  it.  The  great 
Dantean  and  Shakespearean  scholar  is  usually  the 
outcome  of  a  mental  habit  that  would  make  Dante 
and  Shakespeare  impossible. 

So  eminent  a  critic  as  Frederic  Harrison  is  reported 
as  praising  this  sentence  from  the  new  British  author 
Maurice  Hewlett :  "  In  the  milk  of  October  dawns 
her  calm  brows  had  been  dipped."  The  instructor 
in  literature  should  be  able  to  show  his  class  why 
this  is  not  good  literature.  The  suggestion  of  brows 
dipped  in  milk  is  not  a  pleasant  one.  One  cannot 
conceive  of  any  brow  the  beauty  of  which  would  be 
enhanced  by  it,  even  by  the  milk  of  October  dawns, 
if  there  were  anything  in  October  dawns  that  in  the 


26  LITERARY  VALUES 

remotest  way  suggested  milk.  Mr.  Hewlett  is  so  in 
love  with  a  crisp  style  that  he  describes  his  heroine 
as  lying  white  and  twisting  on  a  couch,  crisping  and 
uncrisping  her  little  hands. 

Such  things  come  from  straining  after  novelty. 
They  proceed  from  an  unripe  taste.  Men  of  real 
genius  and  power  are  at  times  guilty  of  such  lapses, 
or  go  astray  in  quest  of  novel  images.  Walter 
Bagehot  sometimes  did.  Writing  of  Sydney  Smith, 
his  rhetoric  shows  its  teeth  in  this  fashion  :  "  Writ 
ers,  like  teeth,  are  divided  into  incisors  and  grinders  ; 
Sydney  Smith  was  a  molar.  He  did  not  run  a  long 
sharp  argument  into  the  interior  of  a  question ;  he  did 
not,  in  the  common  phrase,  go  deeply  into  it ;  but  he 
kept  it  steadily  under  the  contact  of  a  strong,  capable, 
jawlike  understanding,  pressing  its  surface,  effacing 
its  intricacies,  grinding  it  down.'7  Such  a  comparison 
has  the  merit  of  being  vivid ;  it  also  has  the  demerit 
of  an  unworthy  alliance,  —  it  marries  the  noble  and 
the  ignoble.  You  cannot  lift  mastication  up  to  the 
level  of  intellectual  processes,  and  to  seriously  compare 
the  two  is  to  degrade  the  latter.  Sydney  Smith  him 
self  could  not  have  been  guilty  of  such  bad  taste. 

Let  me  finish  this  chapter  with  a  bit  of  prose 
from  Ben  Jonson. 

"  Some  words  are  to  be  culled  out  for  ornament 
and  color,  as  we  gather  flowers  to  strow  houses  or 
make  garlands ;  but  they  are  better  when  they 
grow  to  our  style ;  as  in  a  meadow  where,  though 
the  mere  grass  and  greenness  delight,  yet  the  variety 
of  flowers  doth  heighten  and  beautify." 


n 

ANALOGY  —  TEUE  AND  FALSE 

T  HAVE  never  seen  any  thorough  examination  of 
-"-  the  grounds  of  analogy.  The  works  on  logic 
make  but  slight  reference  to  them,  yet  the  argument 
from  analogy  is  one  of  the  most  frequent  forms  of 
argument,  and  one  of  the  most  convincing.  It  is 
so  much  easier  to  captivate  the  fancy  with  a  pretty 
or  striking  figure  than  to  move  the  judgment  with 
sound  reasons,  —  so  much  easier  to  be  rhetorical 
than  to  be  logical. 

We  say  that  seeing  is  believing ;  the  rhetorician 
makes  us  see  the  thing  ;  his  picture  appeals  to  the 
mind's  visual  sense,  hence  his  power  over  us,  though 
his  analogies  are  more  apt  to  be  false  than  true. 
We  love  to  see  these  agreements  between  thoughts 
and  things,  or  between  the  subjective  and  the  ob 
jective  worlds,  and  a  favorite  thought  with  profound 
minds  in  all  ages  has  been  the  identity  or  oneness 
which  runs  through  creation. 

aA  vast  similitude  interlocks  all,"  says  Whit 
man,  "  spans  all  the  objects  of  the  universe  and  com 
pactly  holds  and  encloses  them." 

Everywhere  in  Nature  Emerson  said  he  saw  the 
figure  of  a  disguised  man.  The  method  of  the  uni- 


28  LITERARY  VALUES 

verse  is  intelligible  to  us  because  it  is  akin  to  our 
own  minds.  Our  minds  are  rather  akin  to  it  and 
are  derived  from  it.  Emerson  made  much  of  this 
thought.  The  truth  here  indicated  is  undoubtedly 
the  basis  of  all  true  analogy  —  this  unity,  this  one 
ness  of  creation ;  but  the  analogies  that  "  are  con 
stant  and  pervade  Nature  "  are  probably  not  so  nu 
merous  as  Emerson  seemed  to  fancy.  Thus  one  can 
hardly  agree  with  him  that  there  is  "  intent  "  of  ana 
logy  between  man's  life  and  the  seasons,  because 
the  seasons  are  not  a  universal  fact  of  the  globe,  and 
man's  life  is.  The  four  seasons  are  well  defined  in 
New  England,  but  not  in  Ecuador. 

The  agreement  of  appearances  is  one  thing,  the 
identity  of  law  and  essence  is  another,  and  the  agree 
ment  of  man's  life  with  the  seasons  must  be  consid 
ered  accidental  rather  than  intentional. 

Language  is  full  of  symbols.  We  make  the 
world  without  a  symbol  of  the  world  within.  We 
describe  thoughts,  and  emotions,  in  the  terms  of  an 
objective  experience.  Things  furnish  the  moulds  in 
which  our  ideas  are  cast.  Size,  proportion,  mass, 
vista,  vastness,  height,  depth,  darkness,  light,  coarse, 
fine,  centre,  surface,  order,  chaos,  and  a  thousand 
other  terms,  we  apply  alike  to  the  world  without 
and  to  the  world  within.  We  know  a  higher  temper 
ance  than  concerns  the  body,  a  finer  digestion  and 
assimilation  than  go  on  in  it. 

Our  daily  conversation  is  full  of  pictures  and  par 
ables,  or  the  emblematic  use  of  things.  From  life 
looked  at  as  a  voyage,  we  get  the  symbolic  use  of 


ANALOGY — TRUE   AND   FALSE  29 

anchor,  compass,  pole-star,  helm,  haven ;  from  life 
considered  as  a  battle,  we  read  deep  meanings  in 
shield,  armor,  fencing,  captain,  citadel,  panic,  onset. 
Life  regarded  under  the  figure  of  husbandry  gives 
us  the  expressive  symbols  of  seedtime  and  harvest, 
planting  and  watering,  tares  and  brambles,  pruning 
and  training,  the  chaff  and  the  wheat.  We  talk  in 
parables  when  we  little  suspect  it.  What  various 
applications  we  make  of  such  words  as  dregs,  gutter, 
eclipse,  satellite,  hunger,  thirst,  kindle,  brazen,  echo, 
and  hundreds  of  others.  We  speak  of  the  reins  of 
government,  the  sinews  of  war,  the  seeds  of  rebel 
lion,  the  morning  of  youth,  the  evening  of  age,  a 
flood  of  emotion,  the  torch  of  truth,  burning  with 
resentment,  the  veil  of  secrecy,  the  foundations  of 
character,  a  ripple  of  laughter,  incrusted  dogmas, 
corrosive  criticism.  We  say  his  spirits  drooped,  his 
mind  soared,  his  heart  softened,  his  brow  darkened, 
his  reputation  was  stabbed,  he  clinched  his  argu 
ment.  We  say  his  course  was  beset  with  pitfalls, 
his  efforts  were  crowned  with  success,  his  eloquence 
was  a  torrent  that  carried  all  before  it,  and  so  on. 

Burke  calls  attention  to  the  metaphors  that  are 
taken  from  the  sense  of  taste,  as  a  sour  temper,  bit 
ter  curses,  bitter  fate ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
sweet  person,  a  sweet  experience,  and  the  like. 
Other  epithets  are  derived  from  the  sense  of  touch, 
as  a  soft  answer,  a  polished  character,  a  cold  recep 
tion,  a  sharp  retort,  a  hard  problem  ;  or  from  the 
sense  of  sight,  as  brilliant,  dazzling,  color,  light, 
shade ;  others  from  our  sense  of  hearing,  as  discord- 


30  LITERARY   VALUES 

ant,  echoing,  reverberating,  booming,  grumbling. 
All  trades,  pursuits,  occupations,  furnish  types  or 
symbols  for  the  mind.  The  word  "  whitewash " 
has  become  a  very  useful  one,  especially  to  political 
parties.  Thoreau  said  he  would  not  be  as  one  who 
drives  a  nail  into  mere  lath  and  plaster.  Even  the 
railroad  has  contributed  useful  terms,  as  side-tracked, 
down  brakes,  the  red  flag,  way  station,  etc.  Great 
men  are  like  through  trains  that  connect  far-distant 
points  ;  others  are  merely  locals.  From  the  builder 
we  get  the  effective  phrase  and  idea  of  scaffolding. 
So  much  in  the  world  is  mere  scaffolding,  so  much 
in  society  is  mere  varnish  and  veneer.  Life  is  said 
to  have  its  "  seamy  side."  The  lever  and  the  ful 
crum  have  their  supersensuous  uses.  The  chemist 
with  his  solvents,  precipitants,  crystallizations,  attrac 
tions,  and  repulsions,  and  the  natural  philosopher 
with  his  statics  and  dynamics  and  his  correlation  of 
forces,  have  enlarged  our  powers  of  expression.  The 
strata  of  the  geologist  furnish  useful  symbols.  What 
a  significant  symbol  is  afforded  by  the  wave  !  There 
is  much  in  life,  in  history,  and  in  all  nature  that  is 
typified  by  it.  We  have  cold  waves  and  hot  waves, 
and  in  the  spring  and  fall  migrations  of  the  birds 
we  have  "  bird  waves."  Earthquake  shocks  go  in 
waves  and  circles ;  how  often  our  views  and  concep 
tions  of  things  are  expressed  by  the  circle  !  It  is  a 
symbol  of  most  profound  meaning.  It  helps  us  to 
understand  how  the  universe  is  finally  inexplicable ; 
that  there  is  neither  beginning  nor  end,  and  that  it 
retreats  forever  into  itself. 


ANALOGY — TEUE   AND   FALSE  31 

We  speak  of  currents  of  thought,  of  opinion,  of 
influence,  and  of  tides  in  the  affairs  of  men.  We 
can  conceive  of  these  things  under  no  better  figure. 
Fire  and  all  that  pertains  to  it  give  us  symbols,  as 
heat,  light,  flame,  sparks,  smoke. 

The  words  juicy,  unctuous,  fluid,  have  obvious 
appropriateness  when  applied  to  the  mind  and  its 
products.  Running  water  gives  us  the  delightful 
epithets  limpid  and  lucid.  Youth  is  plastic,  ductile, 
impressible  —  neither  the  mind  nor  the  body  has 
yet  hardened.  The  analogy  is  vital.  A  habit  gets 
deeper  and  deeper  hold  of  us ;  we  fall  into  a  rut  — 
these  figures  convey  the  exact  truth. 

When  used  as  a  symbol  how  expressive  is  the 
dawn,  the  twilight,  the  sunset !  The  likeness  is  not 
accidental  but  fundamental. 

The  calm  that  comes  after  the  storm  in  human 
life  as  in  nature  —  how  true  the  analogy.  To 
give  vent  to  things,  how  significant.  To  give  vent 
to  angry  feelings  in  words,  how  like  giving  vent  to 
smothered  fire ;  or  to  any  suppressed  and  confined 
force :  the  words  come  faster  and  hotter,  the  passion 
of  anger  mounts  and  there  is  a  "  blow  out "  indeed. 
Deny  yourself  the  first  word,  and  the  conflagration 
is  avoided.  A  passion  can  be  smothered  as  liter 
ally  as  a  fire. 

The  use  of  metaphor,  comparison,  analogy  is  two 
fold  —  to  enliven  and  to  convince ;  to  illustrate 
and  enforce  an  accepted  truth,  and  to  press  home 
and  clinch  one  in  dispute.  An  apt  figure  will  put 
a  new  face  upon  an  old  and  much  worn  truism, 


32  LITERARY   VALUES 

and  a  vital  analogy  may  reach  and  move  the  reason. 
Thus  when  Kenan,  referring  to  the  decay  of  the  old 
religious  beliefs,  says  that  people  are  no  poorer  for 
being  robbed  of  false  bank  notes  and  bogus  shares, 
his  comparison  has  a  logical  validity,  —  as  has  also 
Herbert  Spencer's  figure  when  he  says,  "  The  illusion 
that  great  men  and  great  events  came  oftener  in  early 
times  than  now  is  partly  due  to  historical  perspec 
tive.  As  in  a  range  of  equidistant  columns  the  far 
thest  off  look  the  closest,  so  the  conspicuous  objects 
of  the  past  seem  more  thickly  clustered  the  more 
remote  they  are."  We  seem  to  see  the  identity  of 
law  in  both  these  cases.  We  are  treated  to  a  pic 
torial  argument. 

We  are  using  analogy  in  a  legitimate  and  forceful 
way  when  we  speak  of  our  fund  or  capital  of  bodily 
health  and  strength,  and  of  squandering  or  impairing 
it,  or  of  investing  it  poorly. 

The  accidental  analogies  or  likenesses  are  limit 
less  and  are  the  great  stock  in  trade  of  most  writers 
and  speakers.  They  tickle  the  fancy  and  enliven 
the  page  or  the  discourse.  But  essential  analogies, 
or  those  that  spring  from  unity  of  law,  are  more 
rare.  These  have  the  force  of  logic;  they  shed  a 
steady  light. 

St.  Paul's  famous  comparison  of  the  body  dead 
and  buried  with  the  seed  in  the  soil,  which,  he  says, 
dies  before  it  can  grow,  is  used  with  logical  intent. 
But  will  it  bear  examination  ?  Is  the  germinating 
seed  dead  in  any  sense  that  the  body  is  dead  ?  It  is 
no  more  dead  than  the  egg  buried  beneath  the  mo- 


ANALOGY  —  TRUE   AND  FALSE  33 

ther  hen  is  dead.  When  the  egg  really  dies  we 
know  the  result,  as  we  know  the  result  when  the 
corn  rots  in  the  ground.  It  is  not  dissolution  that 
the  seed  experiences,  but  evolution.  The  illustra 
tion  of  the  eloquent  apostle  may  captivate  the  fancy, 
but  as  argument  designed  to  convince  the  under 
standing  it  has  no  force. 

There  might  be  force  in  the  argument  for  immor 
tality  drawn  from  the  metamorphosis  of  the  grub 
into  the  butterfly,  if  the  chrysalis  really  were  a 
shroud  and  held  a  dead  body.  But  it  is  not,  any 
more  than  an  egg  is;  it  is  quick,  and  capable  of 
movement.  The  analogy  between  it  and  the  dead 
body  will  not  hold.  A  much  more  sound  analogy, 
based  upon  the  chrysalis,  is  that  which  takes  it  as 
the  type  of  a  mind  or  soul  undeveloped,  —  slumber 
ing,  gestating,  —  and  the  winged  creature  as  the  de 
veloped,  emancipated  mind. 

Analogy  means  an  agreement  of  relations  or  an 
equality  of  ratios. 

When  we  speak  of  the  body  as  a  tenement  and 
the  soul  as  the  tenant,  we  mean  or  aver  that  the  re 
lation  of  the  soul  to  the  body  is  the  same  as  that 
of  the  man  to  the  house  he  occupies.  In  either  case 
the  occupant  can  move  out  or  in,  and  is  entirely  dis 
tinct  from  the  structure  that  shelters  him.  But  if 
we  know  anything  about  the  relations  of  the  mind 
and  the  body,  we  know  that  they  are  not  like  this ; 
we  know  that  they  are  not  truthfully  expressed  in 
this  comparison. 

Bishop   Butler's    "  analogy    from  nature,"  upon 


34  LITERARY  VALUES 

which  he  built  his  famous  work,  will  not  any  better 
bear  close  examination.  What  analogy  is  there  be 
tween  death  and  sleep  or  a  swoon  ?  what  agreement 
of  ratios  ?  The  resemblance  is  entirely  superficial. 
Or  how  can  we  predict  another  sphere  of  existence 
for  man  because  another  sphere  awaits  the  unborn 
infant  ?  But  another  sphere  does  not  await  the  un 
born  infant ;  only  new  and  different  relations  to  the 
same  physical  sphere.  An  embryo  implies  a  future  ; 
but  what  is  there  embryonic  about  the  mature  man  ? 

This  breakdown  of  Butler's  argument  in  regard  to 
a  future  life  was  pointed  out  by  Matthew  Arnold ; 
the  very  point  in  dispute,  namely,  a  future  life,  is 
assumed.  If  there  is  a  future  life,  if  there  is  another 
world,  it  doubtless  bears  some  analogy  to  this.  In 
like  manner,  if  there  are  fairies  and  nymphs  and 
demigods,  it  is  not  improbable  to  suppose  that  they 
bear  some  resemblance  to  human  beings,  but  shall 
we  assume  their  actual  existence  upon  such  a  proba 
bility  ? 

That  the  unborn  child  starting  as  a  bit  of  proto 
plasmic  jelly  should  become  a  man,  a  Napoleon,  or 
a  Shakespeare,  may  be  quite  as  startling  a  fact  as 
the  assumption  of  a  future  existence ;  yet  the  former 
is  a  matter  of  experience,  which  lends  no  color  to 
the  truth  of  the  latter.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  reason 
that  babes  become  men,  but  a  matter  of  observation 
and  experience.  Indeed,  in  Butler's  famous  argu 
ment,  the  analogy  of  nature  is  everywhere  forced 
and  falsified.  In  every  case  he  puts  the  words  into 
her  mouth  that  he  would  have  her  speak.  His  faith 


ANALOGY — TRUE   AND  FALSE  35 

supplies  him  with  the  belief  in  a  future  life,  and  in 
a  moral  governor  of  the  universe,  and  then  he  seeks 
to  confirm  or  to  demonstrate  the  truth  of  this  faith 
by  an  appeal  to  the  analogy  of  nature. 

Out  of  this  whirling,  seething,  bubbling  universe 
of  warring  and  clashing  forces  man  has  emerged. 
How  impossible  it  all  seems  to  reason  !  Experience 
alone  tells  us  that  it  is  true.  Upon  the  past  history 
of  the  earth  and  of  the  race  of  man  we  may  pre 
dict  astonishing  changes  and  transformations  for  the 
future  of  both,  because  the  continuity  of  cause  and 
effect  is  not  broken;  but  the  perpetuity  of  the  "me" 
and  the  "  you  "  is  not  implied.  All  that  is  implied 
is  the  perpetuity  of  the  sum  of  physical  forces.  But 
as  to  the  future  of  the  individual,  standing  upon  the 
past  or  upon  the  present,  what  are  we  safe  in  affirm 
ing  ?  Only  this  —  that  as  we  had  a  beginning  we 
shall  have  an  ending ;  that  as  yesterday  we  were 
not,  so  to-morrow  we  shall  not  be.  A  man  is  like 
the  electric  spark  that  glows  and  crackles  for  an  in 
stant  between  two  dark,  silent,  inscrutable  eternities. 
The  fluid  is  not  lost,  but  that  tiny  bolt  has  come 
and  gone.  Darkness  and  silence  before ;  darkness 
and  silence  after.  I  do  not  say  this  is  the  summing 
up  of  the  whole  question  of  immortality.  I  only 
mean  to  say  that  this  is  where  the  argument  from 
analogy  lands  us. 

We  can  argue  from  the  known  to  the  unknown  in 
a  restricted  way.  We  do  this  in  life  and  in  science 
continually.  We  do  not  know  that  the  fixed  stars 
have  worlds  revolving  about  them  ;  yet  the  presump- 


36  LITERARY  VALUES 

tion,  based  upon  our  own  solar  system,  is  that  they 
have.  But  could  we  infer  other  suns,  from  the  ex 
istence  of  our  own,  were  no  others  visible  ?  Could 
we  predict  the  future  of  the  earth  did  we  not  know 
its  past,  or  read  aright  its  past  did  we  not  know  its 
present  state  ?  From  an  arc  we  can  complete  a  cir 
cle.  We  can  read  the  big  in  the  little.  The  mo 
tion  of  a  top  throws  light  upon  the  motion  of  the 
earth.  An  ingenious  mind  finds  types  everywhere, 
but  real  analogies  are  not  so  common. 

The  likeness  of  one  thing  with  another  may  be 
valid  and  real,  but  the  likeness  of  a  thought  with  a 
thing  is  often  merely  fanciful.  We  very  frequently 
unconsciously  counterfeit  external  objects  and  laws 
in  the  region  of  mind  and  morals.  Out  of  a  physi 
cal  fact  or  condition  we  fabricate  a  mental  or  spirit 
ual  condition  or  experience  to  correspond.  Thus  a 
current  journal  takes  the  fact  that  the  sun  obscures 
but  does  not  put  out  the  light  of  the  moon  and  the 
stars,  and  from  it  draws  the  inference  that  the  light 
of  science  may  dim  but  cannot  blot  out  the  objects  of 
faith.  It  counterfeits  this  fact  and  seeks  to  give  it 
equal  force  and  value  in  the  spiritual  realm.  The 
objects  of  faith  may  be  as  real  and  as  unquenchable 
as  the  stars,  but  this  is  the  very  point  in  dispute,  and 
the  analogy  used  assumes  the  thing  to  be  proved.  If 
the  objects  of  faith  are  real,  then  the  light  of  science 
will  not  put  them  out  any  more  than  the  sun  puts 
out  the  stars  ;  but  the  fact  that  the  stars  are  there, 
notwithstanding  the  sunlight,  proves  nothing  with 
regard  to  the  reality  of  the  objects  of  faith.  The 


ANALOGY — TRUE  AND  FALSE  37 

only  real  analogy  that  exists  in  the  case  is  between 
the  darkness  and  the  daylight  of  the  world  within 
and  the  darkness  and  the  daylight  of  the  world 
without.  Science,  or  knowledge,  is  light ;  ignorance 
is  darkness ;  there  are  no  other  symbols  that  so  fully 
and  exactly  express  these  things.  The  mind  sees, 
science  lets  in  the  light,  and  the  darkness  flees. 

If  there  is  anything  in  our  inward  life  and  expe 
rience  that  corresponds  or  is  analogous  to  the  night 
with  its  stars,  it  is  to  be  found  in  that  withdrawal 
from  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  world  into  the 
atmosphere  of  secluded  contemplation.  If  there 
are  any  stars  in  your  firmament,  you  will  find  them 
then.  But,  after  all,  how  far  the  stars  of  religion 
and  philosophy  are  subjective,  or  of  our  own  crea 
tion,  is  always  a  question. 

I  recently  met  with  the  same  fallacy  in  a  leading 
article  in  one  of  the  magazines.  "  The  fact  revealed 
by  the  spectroscope,"  says  the  writer,  "  that  the 
physical  elements  of  the  earth  exist  also  in  the  stars, 
supports  the  faith  that  a  moral  nature  like  our  own 
inhabits  the  universe."  A  tremendous  leap  —  a 
leap  from  the  physical  to  the  moral.  We  know 
that  these  earth  elements  are  found  in  the  stars  by 
actual  observation  and  experience.  We  see  them  as 
truly  as  we  see  the  stars  themselves  ;  but  a  moral 
nature  like  our  own  —  this  is  assumed  and  is  not 
supported  at  all  by  analogy.  The  only  legitimate 
inference  from  the  analogy  is,  that  as  our  sun  has 
planets  and  that  these  planets,  or  one  of  them  at 
least,  is  the  abode  of  life,  so  these  other  suns  in 


38  LITERARY  VALUES 

composition  like  our  own,  and  governed  by  laws  like 
our  own,  have  planets  revolving  around  them  which 
are  or  may  be  the  abode  of  beings  like  ourselves. 
If  this  "  moral  nature  like  our  own  "  pervades  our 
system,  then  the  inference  is  just  that  it  also  per 
vades  the  other  systems.  But  to  argue  from  physi 
cal  elements  to  moral  causes  is  to  throw  upon  ana 
logy  more  than  it  will  bear. 

Analogy  is  a  kind  of  rule  of  three  :  we  must  have 
three  terms  to  find  the  fourth.  We  argue  from  the 
past  to  the  present  and  from  the  present  to  the 
future.  Things  that  begin  must  end.  If  man's  life 
has  been  continuous  in  the  past,  then  we  may  infer 
that  it  will  be  continuous  in  the  future. 

Our  earth  has  a  moon  ;  it  is  reasonable,  there 
fore,  to  suppose  that  some  of  the  other  planets  have 
moons.  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  there  are 
other  planets  and  suns  and  systems,  myriads  of  them. 
It  may  be  reasonable  to  think  with  Sir  Robert  Ball 
that  the  extinct  or  dark  and  burnt-out  bodies  in 
the  sky  exceed  in  numbers  the  luminous  ones,  as  the 
non-luminous  bodies  exceed  the  luminous  ones  upon 
the  earth.  No  man  has  seen  live  steam ;  when  it 
can  be  seen  it  is  dead ;  yet  we  know  that  it  exists. 

We  may  complete  a  circle  from  a  small  segment 
of  it.  If  we  have  two  sides  of  a  triangle,  we  may 
add  the  third.  To  find  the  value  of  an  unknown 
quantity,  we  must  have  a  complete  equation  and  as 
many  equations  as  we  have  unknown  quantities. 
We  can  argue  from  this  life  to  the  future  life  only 
after  proof  that  there  is  a  future  life. 


ANALOGY — TRUE  AND  FALSE  39 

Professor  Drummond  was  able  to  show  the  con 
tinuity  of  natural  law  in  the  spiritual  world  by  as 
suming  that  a  spiritual  world  which  was  the  counter 
part  of  the  physical  world  actually  existed.  That 
Calvinism  in  its  main  tenets  tallies,  or  seems  to 
tally,  with  science  is  no  more  proof  of  the  literal 
truth  of  those  tenets  than  the  ascribing  of  human 
form  and  features  to  the  man  in  the  moon  is  proof 
of  the  existence  of  such  a  man.  Our  minds,  our 
spirits,  are  no  doubt  in  a  way  under  the  same  law  as 
are  our  bodies,  because  they  are  the  outcome  of  our 
bodies  and  our  bodies  are  the  outcome  of  material 
nature  ;  but  to  base  upon  that  fact  the  existence  of  a 
corresponding  world  and  life  after  death  is  to  leap 
beyond  the  bounds  of  all  possible  analogy. 

Many  of  the  dogmas  of  theology  have  a  grain  of 
natural  truth  in  them.  This  does  not  prove  their 
truth,  as  applicable  to  some  hypothetical  other 
world,  but  as  applied  to  this  world.  The  kingdom 
of  heaven,  as  the  founder  of  Christianity  taught,  is 
not  yonder  and  of  to-morrow,  but  is  now  and  here. 

Tolstoi,  I  think,  is  guilty  of  false  analogy  when, 
in  attempting  to  get  rid  of  the  idea  of  pleasure  as 
the  aim  and  purpose  of  art,  he  makes  the  compari 
son  with  food,  and  says  that  pleasure  is  no  more  the 
end  in  eating  than  it  is  in  painting,  or  poetry,  or 
music.  The  analogy  is  false  because  the  necessities 
of  our  bodies  are  not  to  be  compared  with  the  luxu 
ries,  so  to  speak,  of  our  minds.  We  cannot  live 
without  food,  but  we  can  and  do  live  without  art. 
And  yet,  do  we  not  eat  because  the  food  tastes  good  ? 


40  LITERARY  VALUES 

Is  not  the  satisfaction  of  appetite  the  prime  motive  in 
eating  ?  If  dining  gave  us  no  pleasure,  we  should 
probably  soon  learn  to  swallow  our  food  in  a  highly 
concentrated  form,  in  capsules,  and  thus  make  short 
work  of  it.  Nature,  of  course,  conceals  her  own  pur 
pose  in  the  pleasure  we  take  in  our  food,  just  as  she 
does  in  the  pleasure  of  the  sexes ;  but  of  this  pur 
pose  we  take  little  thought,  except  in  the  latter  case 
how  to  defeat  it.  We  do  not  have  conscious  plea 
sure  in  breathing ;  hence  our  breathing  is  involuntary. 
We  do  have  conscious  pleasure  in  food ;  hence  our 
elaborate  and  ingenious  cookery  —  often  to  the  detri 
ment  of  our  bodies.  Take  away  the  pleasures  of  life, 
the  innocent  natural  pleasure,  take  away  the  plea 
sures  of  art,  and  few  of  us  would  care  for  either. 

Man  is  a  microcosm,  an  epitome  of  the  universe, 
and  its  laws  and  processes  are  repeated  dimly  or 
plainly  in  him.  Then  there  are,  of  course,  real  ana 
logies  and  homologies  between  different  parts  of  na 
ture,  as  between  fluids  and  gases,  and  fluids  and 
solids,  between  the  organic  and  the  inorganic,  be 
tween  the  animal,  vegetable,  and  mineral  kingdoms. 

When  we  strike  the  great  vital  currents  or  laws, 
—  the  law  of  growth,  of  decay,  of  health  and  disease, 
of  reproduction,  of  evolution,  —  we  strike  the  re 
gion  of  true  analogy.  These  laws  must  be  continu 
ous  throughout  nature.  All  phases  of  development 
must  be  analogous.  The  mind  grows  with  the  body 
and  is  under  the  same  law.  Exercise  is  the  same  to 
both.  Each  has  its  appetites.  Each  has  its  tonics 
and  stimulants.  All  beginnings  are  the  same  ;  that 


ANALOGY  —  TRUE   AND  FALSE  41 

is,  from  a  germ.  Language  must  have  begun  in 
the  most  rudimentary  sounds.  Art,  we  know,  be 
gan  in  the  most  rude  and  simple  marks  and  signs ; 
science  in  the  crudest,  simplest  facts ;  religion  in 
childish  superstition  ;  and  so  on  through  the  whole 
scope  of  human  development.  Development  is  al 
ways  from  the  simple  to  the  complex. 

There  is,  no  doubt,  a  deep-seated  analogy  between 
the  growth  of  the  individual  and  the  growth  of  the 
state  or  nation  ;  between  revolutions  in  history,  and 
storms  and  convulsions  in  nature. 

We  speak  of  the  root  of  the  matter ;  everything 
really  has  its  root,  its  obscure  beginning,  its  hidden 
underground  processes. 

There  are  types  and  suggestions  everywhere  — 
fresh  fuel  checks  the  fire ;  the  soft  stone  cuts  the 
steel  the  fastest ;  the  first  big  drops  of  the  shower 
raise  the  dust. 

The  analogy  between  the  development  of  animal 
life  upon  the  earth  and  the  growth  of  organized 
communities  seems  complete.  In  the  lower  forms  of 
life,  there  is  no  specialization,  or  division  of  func 
tions.  The  amoeba  can  move,  feel,  digest,  reproduce 
in  every  part  of  its  structure ;  it  is  not  differen 
tiated  or  specialized ;  so  in  the  rudest  tribes,  there 
is  little  division  of  labor.  As  animal  life  develops, 
each  part  of  the  body  has  a  function  of  its  own  ;  and 
as  communities  develop,  extreme  specialization  takes 
place.  Organic  life  goes  from  the  simple  to  the 
complex,  as  does  progress  in  human  affairs.  This 
is  the  law  of  all  growth. 


42  LITERARY   VALUES 

When  Schopenhauer  says  "  riches  are  like  sea 
water ;  the  more  you  drink  the  thirstier  you  be 
come/7  the  mind  is  instantly  pleased  by  the  force 
and  aptness  of  the  comparison,  and  for  the  moment 
we  look  upon  riches  as  something  to  be  avoided. 
But  is  the  analogy  entirely  true  ?  Sea  water  is  to 
be  avoided  altogether,  even  a  single  mouthful  of  it ; 
but  even  Schopenhauer  defends  riches  and  the  pur 
suit  of  riches.  "  People  are  often  reproached  for 
wishing  for  money  above  all  things,  and  for  loving 
it  more  than  anything  else ;  but  it  is  natural  and 
even  inevitable  for  people  to  love  that  which,  like 
an  unwearied  Proteus,  is  always  ready  to  turn  it 
self  into  whatever  object  their  wandering  wishes  or 
manifold  desires  may  for  the  moment  fix  upon." 
Here  the  comparison  will  bear  a  closer  scrutiny. 
Wealth  is  indeed  a  Proteus  that  will  take  any  form 
your  fancy  may  choose.  "  Other  things  are  only 
relatively  good,"  the  great  pessimist  further  says ; 
"  money  alone  is  absolutely  good,  because  it  is  not 
only  a  concrete  satisfaction  of  one  need  in  particu 
lar  ;  it  is  an  abstract  satisfaction  of  all."  What, 
then,  becomes  of  its  analogy  to  sea  water,  which 
so  mocks  and  inflames  our  thirst  ?  Even  the  re 
semblance  in  the  one  particular  that  Schopenhauer 
had  in  mind  is  not  true.  To  the  great  majority  of 
people  wealth  brings  a  degree  of  satisfaction ;  they 
give  over  its  pursuit  and  seek  the  enjoyment  of  it. 
When  a  man  enters  into  the  race  for  wealth,  he  is 
unflagging  in  seeking  it  as  long  as  his  cup  of  life  is 
full ;  but  when  the  limits  of  his  powers  are  reached, 


ANALOGY  —  TRUE  AND  FALSE  43 

he  begins  to  lose  interest,  and  the  appetite  for  gold, 
as  for  other  things,  declines. 

When  the  same  philosopher  says  that  to  measure 
a  man's  happiness  only  by  what  he  gets,  and  not 
also  by  what  he  expects  to  get,  is  as  futile  as  to 
try  to  express  a  fraction  which  shall  have  a  numera 
tor  but  no  denominator,  he  uses  a  figure  that  con 
veys  the  truth  much  more  fully.  It  may  be  open 
to  the  objection  of  being  too  technical,  but  it  ex 
presses  a  real  relation  for  all  that.  When  you  in 
crease  your  expectations,  you  increase  your  denom 
inator  ;  and  as  most  men  expect  or  want  more  than 
they  have,  human  happiness  is  nearly  always  a  frac 
tion  —  rarely  is  it  a  whole  number.  With  many  it 
is  a  very  small  fraction  indeed.  Blessed  is  he  who 
expects  little.  The  man  who  expects  ten  and  gets 
but  five  is  more  to  be  envied  than  he  who  expects 
a  thousand  and  gets  but  fifty.  He  is  nearer  the  sum  of 
his  wishes.  Hence  the  truth  of  the  old  saying  that 
it  is  our  wants  that  make  us  poor.  When  a  piece 
of  good  fortune  that  he  did  not  expect  comes  to  a 
man,  his  happiness  or  satisfaction  is  no  longer  a 
fraction  ;  it  is  more  than  a  unit. 

Quintilian  says  that  the  early  blossom  of  talent  is 
rarely  followed  by  the  fruit  of  great  achievement,  but 
the  early  works  of  a  man  or  a  youth  are  just  as 
much  fruit  as  his  later  ones.  There  is  really  no 
analogy  between  the  early  works  of  an  author  and 
the  blossoms  of  a  tree.  The  dreams,  the  visions, 
the  aspirations  of  youth  are  more  like  blossoms. 
Probably  no  great  man  has  been  without  them;  but 


44  LITERARY  VALUES 

how  they  wither  and  fall,  and  how  much  more  sober 
the  aspect  which  life  puts  on  before  any  solid 
achievements  can  be  pointed  to !  There  is  usually 
something  more  fresh  and  pristine  about  the  earlier 
works  of  a  man  —  more  buoyancy,  more  unction, 
more  of  the  "  fluid  and  attaching  character ; "  but 
the  ripest  wisdom  always  goes  with  age. 

There  are,  no  doubt,  many  strict  and  striking  ana 
logies  between  the  mind  and  the  body,  their  growth 
and  decay,  their  health  and  disease,  their  assimila 
tive,  digestive,  and  reproductive  processes. 

The  mind  is  only  a  finer  body.  It  is  hardly  a 
figure  of  speech  to  speak  of  wounded  feelings,  of 
a  wounded  spirit.  How  acute  at  first,  and  how 
surely  healing  with  time.  But  the  scar  remains. 
Then  there  are  real  analogies,  real  parallels,  be 
tween  the  mind  and  outward  nature,  in  the  laws 
of  growth  and  decay,  nutrition  and  reproduction. 
"  The  mind  of  Otho,"  says  Tacitus,  "  was  not,  like 
his  body,  soft  and  effeminate."  There  are  minds 
that  are  best  described  by  the  word  masculine,  and 
others  by  the  word  feminine.  There  are  dull, 
sluggish  minds,  just  as  there  are  heavy,  sluggish 
bodies,  and  the  two  usually  go  together.  There 
are  dry,  lean  minds,  and  there  are  minds  full  of 
unction  and  juice.  We  even  use  the  phrase  "  men 
tal  dyspepsia,"  but  the  analogy  here  implied  is  prol> 
ably  purely  fanciful,  though  mental  dissipation  and 
mental  intemperance  are  no  idle  words.  Some  per 
sons  acquire  the  same  craze  for  highly  exciting  and 
stimulating  mental  food  that  others  have  for  strong 


ANALOGY  —  TRUE   AND   FALSE  45 

drink,  or  for  pepper  and  other  condiments.  They 
lose  their  taste  for  simple,  natural,  healthful  things, 
—  for  good  sound  literature,  —  and  crave  sensational 
novels  and  the  Sunday  newspapers.  Doubtless  a 
large  part  of  the  reading  of  the  American  people  to 
day  is  sheer  mental  dissipation,  and  is  directed  by 
an  abnormal  craving  for  mental  excitement.  There 
is  degeneration  in  the  physical  world,  and  there  is 
degeneration,  strictly  so  called,  in  the  intellectual 
world.  There  are  proportion,  relation,  cause  and 
effect,  health  and  disease,  in  one  as  in  the  other. 
Logic  is  but  the  natural  relation  of  parts  as  we  see 
them  in  the  organic  world.  In  fact,  logic  is  but 
health  and  proportion.  The  mind  cannot  fly  any 
more  than  the  body  can ;  it  progresses  from  one 
fact  or  consideration  to  another,  step  by  step,  though 
often,  or  perhaps  generally,  we  are  not  conscious  of 
the  steps.  A  large  view  of  truth  may  be  suddenly 
revealed  to  the  mind,  as  of  a  landscape  from  a 
hill-top;  but  the  mind  did  not  fly  to  the  vantage 
ground ;  it  reached  it  by  a  slow  and  maybe  obscure 
process. 

The  world  is  simpler  than  we  think.  The  modes 
and  processes  of  things  widely  dissimilar  are  more 
likely  to  be  identical  than  we  suspect.  There  are 
homologies  where  we  see  apparent  contradiction. 
There  is  but  one  protoplasm  for  animal  and  vege 
table.  A  little  more  or  less  heat  makes  the  gaseous, 
makes  the  liquid,  makes  the  solid.  Lava  crystal 
lizes  or  freezes  at  a  high  temperature  ;  water,  at  a  low 
one ;  mercury,  at  a  still  lower.  Charcoal  and  the 


46  LITERARY  VALUES 

diamond  are  one ;  the  same  law  of  gravitation  which 
makes  the  cloud  float  makes  the  rain  fall.  The  law 
that  spheres  a  tear  spheres  a  globe.  These  facts 
warrant  us  in  looking  for  real  homologies,  vital  cor 
respondences,  in  nature.  Only  such  correspondences 
give  logical  and  scientific  value  to  analogy.  If  the 
likeness  means  identity  of  law,  or  is  the  same  prin 
ciple  in  another  disguise,  then  it  is  an  instrument 
of  truth.  We  might  expect  to  find  many  analogies 
between  air  and  water,  the  atmosphere  being  but 
a  finer  ocean ;  also  between  ice  and  water,  and  be 
tween  ice  and  the  stratified  rocks.  If  water  flows, 
then  will  ice  flow  ;  if  ice  bends,  then  will  the  rocky 
strata  bend.  If  cross  fertilization  is  good  in  the 
vegetable  world,  we  should  expect  to  find  it  good  in 
the  animal  world. 

There  is  thought  to  be  a  strict  analogy  between 
the  succession  of  plants  in  different  months  of  the 
year  and  the  prevalence  of  different  diseases  at  dif 
ferent  seasons.  The  germ  theory  of  disease  gives 
force  to  the  comparison.  The  different  species  of 
germs  no  doubt  find  some  periods  of  the  year  more 
favorable  to  their  development  than  others. 

If  on  this  planet  men  walk  about  while  trees  are 
rooted  to  the  ground,  we  may  reasonably  expect  that 
the  same  is  true  —  provided  that  on  them  there  are 
men  and  trees  —  of  all  other  planets.  If  the  law  of 
variation,  and  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  are  the  laws 
of  one  species,  then  they  will  prove  to  be  the  laws  of 
all.  The  bud  is  a  kind  of  seed ;  the  fruit  is  a  kind 
of  leaf.  High  culture  has  the  same  effect  upon  man 


ANALOGY  —  TRUE   AND   FALSE  47 

and  animals  that  it  has  upon  plants,  —  it  lessens 
the  powers  of  reproduction.  The  lowest  organisms 
multiply  by  myriads ;  the  higher  barely  keep  from 
retrograding.  A  wild  apple  is  full  of  seeds  ;  in  a 
choice  pippin  the  seeds  are  largely  abortive.  Indeed, 
all  weeds  and  parasites  seem  bent  on  filling  the  world 
with  their  progeny,  while  the  higher  forms  fall  off 
and  tend  to  extinction.  Such  agreements  and  corre 
spondences  point  to  identity  of  law.  The  analogy 
is  vital. 

In  the  animal  economy  there  are  analogies  with 
outward  nature.  Thus  respiration  is  a  kind  of  com 
bustion.  Life  itself  is  a  kind  of  fire  which  goes  out 
when  it  has  no  fuel  to  feed  upon.  The  foliage  of  a 
tree  has  functions  like  those  of  the  lungs  of  an  ani 
mal.  Darwin  has  noted  the  sleep  of  plants  and 
their  diurnal  motions.  Dr.  Holmes  had  a  bold  fancy 
that  trees  are  animals,  with  their  tails  in  the  air 
and  their  heads  in  the  ground  ;  but  there  is  nothing  in 
the  trunk  and  branches  of  a  tree  analogous  to  a  tail, 
though  there  is  a  sort  of  rudimentary  intelligence  in 
the  root,  as  Darwin  has  shown.  We  use  the  tree  as 
a  symbol  of  the  branching  of  a  family ;  hence  the 
family  tree.  But  the  analogy  is  not  a  true  one. 
The  branches  of  a  family  multiply  and  diverge  when 
traced  backward  the  same  as  forward.  You  had  two 
parents,  they  had  four,  these  four  had  eight,  and  so 
on.  If  the  human  race  sprang  from  one  pair,  then 
are  its  branchings  more  a  kind  of  network,  an  end 
less  multiplication  of  meshes.  All  the  past  appears 
to  centre  in  you,  and  all  the  future  to  spring  from 


48  LITERARY   VALUES 

you.  We  get  the  family  tree  only  by  cutting  out  a 
fragment  of  this  network. 

There  is  little  doubt  that  certain  natural  laws 
pervade  alike  both  mind  and  matter.  The  law  of 
evolution  is  universally  operative,  and  is  the  key  to 
development  in  the  moral  and  intellectual  world  no 
less  than  in  the  physical.  We  are  probably,  in  all 
our  thoughts  and  purposes,  much  more  under  the 
dominion  of  universal  natural  laws  than  we  suspect. 
The  will  reaches  but  a  little  way.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  the  race  of  man  bears  a  definite  relation  to  the 
life  of  the  globe,  —  that  is,  to  its  age,  its  store  of 
vitality ;  that  it  will  culminate  as  the  vital  power 
of  the  earth  culminates,  and  decline  as  it  declines. 
Like  man,  the  earth  has  had  its  youth,  —  its  nebu 
lous,  fiery,  molten  youth ;  then  its  turbulent,  luxuri 
ant,  copious,  riotous  middle  period ;  then  its  placid, 
temperate,  ripe  later  age,  when  the  higher  forms 
emerge  upon  the  scene.  The  analogy  is  deep  and 
radical.  The  vital  energy  of  the  globe  was  once 
much  more  rampant  and  overflowing  than  it  is  now  ; 
the  time  will  come  when  the  pulse  of  the  planet  will 
be  much  feebler  than  it  is  now.  Youth  and  age, 
growth  and  decay,  are  universal  conditions.  The 
heavens  themselves  shall  wax  old  as  doth  a  garment. 
Life  and  death  are  universal  conditions,  and  to  fancy 
a  place  where  death  is  not  is  to  fancy  one's  self 
entirely  outside  of  this  universe  and  of  all  possible 
universes. 

Men  in  communities  and  assemblages  are  under 
laws  that  do  not  reach  or  affect  the  single  individ- 


ANALOGY  —  TRUE  AND   FALSE  49 

ual,  just  as  vast  bodies  of  water  respond  to  attrac 
tions  and  planetary  perturbations  that  do  not  affect 
the  lesser  bodies.  Men  kindle  one  another  as  do  fire 
brands,  and  beget  a  collective  heat  and  an  enthusi 
asm  that  tyrannize  over  the  individual  purposes  and 
wills.  We  say  things  are  in  the  air,  that  a  spirit  is 
abroad  ;  that  is,  that  influences  are  at  work  above 
the  wills  and  below  the  consciousness  of  the  people. 
There  are  changes  or  movements  in  the  world  and 
in  the  communities  that  seem  strictly  analogous  to 
drifting  ;  it  is  as  when  a  ship  is  carried  out  of  its 
course  by  unsuspected  currents,  or  as  when  arctic 
explorers,  with  their  faces  set  northward,  are  uncon 
sciously  carried  in  the  opposite  direction  by  the  ice 
floe  beneath  them.  The  spirit  of  the  age,  or  the 
time-spirit,  is  always  at  work,  and  takes  us  with 
it,  whether  we  know  it  or  not.  For  instance,  the 
whole  religious  world  is  now  drifting  away  from  the 
old  theology,  and  drifting  faster  than  we  suspect. 
Certain  zealots  have  their  faces  very  strongly  set 
against  it,  but,  like  Commodore  Parry  on  the  ice 
floe,  they  are  going  south  faster  than  their  efforts  are 
carrying  them  north.  Indeed,  the  whole  sentiment 
of  the  race  is  moving  into  a  more  genial  and  tem 
perate  theological  climate,  away  from  purgatorial 
fires  rather  than  toward  them. 

The  political  sentiment  of  a  country  also  drifts. 
That  of  our  own  may  be  said  to  have  been  drifting 
for  some  time  now  in  the  direction  of  freer  commer 
cial  intercourse  with  other  nations. 

A  man's  life  may  stagnate  as  literally  as  water  may 


50  LITERARY   VALUES 

stagnate,  and  just  as  motion  and  direction  are  the 
remedy  for  one,  so  purpose  and  activity  are  the  rem 
edy  for  the  other.  Movement  is  the  condition  of 
life,  anyway.  Set  the  currents  going  in  the  air,  in 
the  water,  in  the  body,  in  the  mind,  in  the  commu 
nity,  and  a  healthier  condition  will  follow.  Change, 
diversity,  activity,  are  the  prime  conditions  of  life 
and  health  everywhere.  Persons  with  douhts  and 
perplexities  about  life  go  to  work  to  ameliorate  some 
of  its  conditions,  and  their  doubts  and  perplexities 
vanish  —  not  because  their  problems  are  solved,  as 
they  think  they  are,  but  because  their  energies  have 
found  an  outlet,  the  currents  have  been  set  going. 
Persons  of  strong  will  have  few  doubts  and  uncer 
tainties.  They  do  not  solve  the  problems,  but  they 
break  the  spell  of  their  enchantment.  Nothing  re 
lieves  and  ventilates  Ihe  mind  like  a  resolution. 

A  true  work  of  art  is  analogous  to  a  living  organ 
ism.  "  The  essential  condition  of  art  creations," 
says  Kenan,  "  is  to  form  a  living  system  every  por 
tion  of  which  answers  and  demands  every  other.  .  .  . 
The  intimate  laws  of  life,  of  the  development  of 
organic  products,  and  of  the  toning  down  of  shades 
must  be  considered  at  every  step."  Works  such  as 
certain  of  Victor  Hugo's,  which  have  no  organic 
unity  and  proportion,  are,  according  to  this  dictum, 
monstrosities. 

When  Matthew  Arnold  insisted  upon  it  that  in 
all  vital  prose  there  is  a  process  of  evolution,  he 
enunciated  the  same  principle  as  did  E-enan.  We 
all  know  well  that  which  is  organic  in  books  as  dis- 


ANALOGY  —  TRUE   AND  FALSE  51 

tinguished  from  the  inorganic,  the  vital  as  distin 
guished  from  the  mechanical.  Read  the  learned 
address  of  the  president  of  some  local  scientific  or 
literary  society,  and  then  turn  to  one  of  Professor 
Huxley's  trenchant  papers.  The  difference  is  just 
that  between  weapons  in  an  armory  and  weapons  in 
the  hands  of  trained  soldiers.  Huxley's  will  and 
purpose,  or  his  personality,  pervade  and  vitalize  his 
material  and  make  it  his  own,  while  the  learned 
president  sustains  only  an  accidental  and  mechanical 
relation  to  what  he  has  to  say.  Happy  is  the  writer 
who  can  lop  off  or  cut  out  from  his  page  everything 
to  which  he  sustains  only  a  secondary  and  mechani 
cal  relation. 

The  summing  up  of  the  matter  would  then  seem 
to  be,  that  there  is  an  analogy  of  rhetoric  and  an 
analogy  of  science  ;  a  likeness  that  is  momentary 
and  accidental,  giving  rise  to  metaphor  and  parable ; 
and  a  correspondence  that  is  fundamental,  arising 
from  the  universality  of  law. 


Ill 

STYLE  AND  THE  MAN 


riiHE  difference  between  a  precious  stone  and  a 
-*-  common  stone  is  not  an  essential  difference  — 
not  a  difference  of  substance,  but  of  arrangement  of 
the  particles  —  the  crystallization.  In  substance  char 
coal  and  the  diamond  are  one,  but  in  form  and  effect 
how  widely  they  differ.  The  pearl  contains  nothing 
that  is  not  found  in  the  coarsest  oyster  shell. 

Two  men  have  the  same  thoughts  ;  they  use  about 
the  same  words  in  expressing  them ;  yet  with  one 
the  product  is  real  literature,  with  the  other  it  is  a 
platitude. 

The  difference  is  all  in  the  presentation ;  a  finer 
and  more  compendious  process  has  gone  on  in  the 
one  case  than  in  the  other.  The  elements  are  bet 
ter  fused  and  welded  together  ;  they  are  in  some 
way  heightened  and  intensified.  Is  not  here  a  clue 
to  what  we  mean  by  style  ?  Style  transforms  com 
mon  quartz  into  an  Egyptian  pebble.  We  are  apt 
to  think  of  style  as  something  external,  that  can  be 
put  on,  something  in  and  of  itself.  But  it  is  not ; 
it  is  in  the  inmost  texture  of  the  substance.  Choice 
words,  faultless  rhetoric,  polished  periods,  are  only 


STYLE   AND   THE  MAN  53 

the  accidents  of  style.  Indeed,  perfect  workman 
ship  is  one  thing ;  style,  as  the  great  writers  have 
it,  is  quite  another.  It  may,  and  often  does,  go 
with  faulty  workmanship.  It  is  the  use  of  words 
in  a  fresh  and  vital  way,  so  as  to  give  us  a  vivid 
sense  of  a  new  spiritual  force  and  personality.  In 
the  best  work  the  style  is  found  and  hidden  in  the 
matter. 

If  a  writer  does  not  bring  a  new  thought,  he  must 
at  least  bring  a  new  quality,  —  he  must  give  a  fresh, 
new  flavor  to  the  old  thoughts.  Style  or  quality 
will  keep  a  man's  work  alive  whose  thought  is  es 
sentially  commonplace,  as  is  the  case  with  Addison ; 
and  Arnold  justly  observes  of  the  poet  Gray  that 
his  gift  of  style  doubles  his  force  and  "  raises  him  to 
a  rank  beyond  what  his  natural  richness  and  power 
seem  to  warrant." 

There  is  the  correct,  conventional,  respectable  and 
scholarly  use  of  language  of  the  mass  of  writers,  and 
there  is  the  fresh,  stimulating,  quickening  use  of 
it  of  the  man  of  genius.  How  apt  and  racy  and 
telling  is  often  the  language  of  unlettered  persons ; 
the  born  writer  carries  this  same  gift  into  a  higher 
sphere.  There  is  a  passage  in  one  of  Emerson's 
early  letters,  written  when  he  was  but  twenty-four, 
and  given  by  Mr.  Cabot  in  his  Memoir,  which  shows 
how  clearly  at  that  age  Emerson  discerned  the  secret 
of  good  writing  and  good  preaching. 

"  I  preach  half  of  every  Sunday.  When  I  at 
tended  church  on  the  other  half  of  a  Sunday,  and 
the  image  in  the  pulpit  was  all  of  clay,  and  not  of 


54  LITERARY  VALUES 

tunable  metal,  I  said  to  myself  that  if  men  would 
avoid  that  general  language  and  general  manner  in 
which  they  strive  to  hide  all  that  is  peculiar,  and 
would  say  only  what  is  uppermost  in  their  own 
minds,  after  their  own  individual  manner,  every 
man  would  be  interesting.  .  .  .  But  whatever  pro 
perties  a  man  of  narrow  intellect  feels  to  be  peculiar 
he  studiously  hides  ;  he  is  ashamed  or  afraid  of  him 
self,  and  all  his  communications  to  men  are  unskill 
ful  plagiarisms  from  the  common  stock  of  thought 
and  knowledge,  and  he  is  of  course  flat  and  tire 
some." 

The  great  mass  of  the  writing  and  sermonizing  of 
any  age  is  of  the  kind  here  indicated  ;  it  is  the  re 
sult  of  the  machinery  of  culture  and  of  books  and 
the  schools  put  into  successful  operation.  But  now 
and  then  a  man  appears  whose  writing  is  vital ;  his 
page  may  be  homely,  but  it  is  alive  ;  it  is  full  of 
personal  magnetism.  The  writer  does  not  merely 
give  us  what  he  thinks  or  knows  ;  he  gives  us  him 
self.  There  is  nothing  secondary  or  artificial  be 
tween  himself  and  his  reader.  It  is  books  of  this 
kind  that  mankind  does  not  willingly  let  die.  Some 
minds  are  like  an  open  fire,  —  how  direct  and  instant 
our  communication  with  them ;  how  they  interest 
us ;  there  are  no  screens  or  disguises ;  we  see  and 
feel  the  vital  play  of  their  thought ;  we  are  face  to 
face  with  their  spirits.  Indeed  all  good  literature, 
whether  poetry  or  prose,  is  the  open  fire ;  there  is 
directness,  reality,  charm ;  we  get  something  at  first 
hand  that  warms  and  stimulates. 


STYLE   AND   THE  MAN  55 

In  literature  proper  our  interest,  I  think,  is  always 
in  the  writer  himself,  —  his  quality,  his  personality, 
his  point  of  view.  We  may  fancy  that  we  care  only 
for  the  subject  matter ;  but  the  born  writer  makes 
any  subject  interesting  to  us  by  his  treatment  of  it 
or  by  the  personal  element  he  infuses  into  it.  When 
our  concern  is  primarily  with  the  subject  matter,  with 
the  fact  or  the  argument,  or  with  the  information 
conveyed,  then  we  are  not  dealing  with  literature  in 
the  strict  sense.  It  is  not  so  much  what  the  writer 
tells  us  that  makes  literature,  as  the  way  he  tells 
it;  or  rather,  it  is  the  degree  in  which  he  imparts  to 
it  some  rare  personal  quality  or  charm  that  is  the  gift 
of  his  own  spirit,  something  which  cannot  be  de 
tached  from  the  work  itself,  and  which  is  as  inherent 
as  the  sheen  of  a  bird's  plumage,  as  the  texture  of 
a  flower's  petal.  There  is  this  analogy  in  nature. 
The  hive  bee  does  not  get  honey  from  the  flowers  ; 
honey  is  a  product  of  the  bee.  What  she  gets  from 
the  flowers  is  mainly  sweet  water  or  nectar ;  this  she 
puts  through  a  process  of  her  own,  and  to  it  adds  a 
minute  drop  of  her  own  secretion,  formic  acid.  It 
is  her  special  personal  contribution  that  converts  the 
nectar  into  honey. 

In  the  work  of  the  literary  artist,  common  facts 
and  experiences  are  changed  and  heightened  in  the 
same  way.  Sainte-Beuve,  speaking  of  certain  parts 
of  Rousseau's  " Confessions,"  says,  "Such  pages  were, 
in  French  literature,  the  discovery  of  a  new  world,  a 
world  of  sunshine  and  of  freshness,  which  men  had 
near  them  without  having  perceived  it."  They  had 


56  LITERARY   VALUES 

not  perceived  it  because  they  had  not  had  Rousseau's 
mind  to  mirror  it  for  them.  The  sunshine  and  the 
freshness  were  a  gift  of  his  spirit.  The  new  world 
was  the  old  world  in  a  new  light.  What  charmed 
them  was  a  quality  personal  to  Rousseau.  Nature 
they  had  always  had,  but  not  the  Kousseau  sensibil 
ity  to  nature.  The  same  may  be  said  of  more  re 
cent  writers  upon  outdoor  themes.  Readers  fancy 
that  in  the  works  of  Thoreau  or  of  Jefferies  some  new 
charm  or  quality  of  nature  is  disclosed,  that  some 
thing  hidden  in  field  or  wood  is  brought  to  light. 
They  do  not  see  that  what  they  are  in  love  with  is 
the  mind  or  spirit  of  the  writer  himself.  Thoreau 
does  not  interpret  nature,  but  nature  interprets  him. 
The  new  thing  disclosed  in  bird  and  flower  is  simply 
a  new  sensibility  to  these  objects  in  the  beholder. 
In  morals  and  ethics  the  same  thing  is  true.  Let 
an  essayist  like  Dr.  Johnson  or  Arthur  Helps  state  a 
principle  or  an  idea  and  it  has  a  certain  value ;  let 
an  essayist  like  Ruskin  or  Emerson  or  Carlyle  state 
the  same  principle  and  it  has  an  entirely  different 
value,  makes  an  entirely  different  impression,  —  the 
qualities  of  mind  and  character  of  these  writers  are 
so  different.  The  reader's  relation  with  them  is 
much  more  intimate  and  personal. 

It  is  quality  of  mind  which  makes  the  writings 
of  Burke  rank  above  those  of  Gladstone,  Ruskin's 
criticism  above  that  of  Hamerton,  Froude's  histories 
above  Freeman's,  Renan's  "Life  of  Jesus"  above 
that  of  Strauss ;  which  makes  the  pages  of  Goethe, 
Coleridge,  Lamb,  literature  in  a  sense  that  the  works 


STYLE  AND  THE  MAN  57 

of  many  able  minds  are  not.  These  men  impart 
something  personal  and  distinctive  to  the  language 
they  use.  They  make  the  words  their  own.  The 
literary  quality  is  not  something  put  on.  It  is  not 
of  the  hand,  it  is  of  the  mind  ;  it  is  not  of  the  mind, 
but  of  the  soul ;  it  is  of  whatever  is  most  vital  and 
characteristic  in  the  writer.  It  is  confined  to  no 
particular  manner  and  to  no  particular  matter.  It 
may  be  the  gift  of  writers  of  widely  different  man 
ners  —  of  Carlyle  as  well  as  of  Arnold ;  and  in  men 
of  similar  manners,  one  may  have  it  and  the  other 
may  not.  It  is  as  subtle  as  the  tone  of  the  voice 
or  the  glance  of  the  eye.  Quality  is  the  one  thing 
in  life  that  cannot  be  analyzed,  and  it  is  the  one 
thing  in  art  that  cannot  be  imitated.  A  man's  man 
ner  may  be  copied,  but  his  style,  his  charm,  his  real 
value,  can  only  be  parodied.  In  the  conscious  or 
unconscious  imitations  of  the  major  poets  by  the 
minor,  we  get  only  a  suggestion  of  the  manner  of 
the  former  ;  their  essential  quality  cannot  be  repro 
duced. 

English  literature  is  full  of  imitations  of  the 
Greek  poets,  but  that  which  the  Greek  poets  did  not 
and  could  not  borrow  they  cannot  lend ;  their  qual 
ity  stays  with  them.  The  charm  of  spoken  dis 
course  is  largely  in  the  personal  quality  of  the 
speaker  —  something  intangible  to  print.  When 
we  see  the  thing  in  print,  we  wonder  how  it  could 
so  have  charmed  or  moved  us.  To  convey  this 
charm,  this  aroma  of  the  man,  to  the  written  dis 
course  is  the  triumph  of  style.  A  recent  French 


58  LITERARY   VALUES 

critic  says  of  Madame  de  Stael  that  she  had  no  style  ; 
she  wrote  just  as  she  thought,  but  without  being  able 
to  impart  to  her  writing  the  living  quality  of  her 
speech.  It  is  not  importance  of  subject  matter  that 
makes  a  work  great,  but  importance  of  the  subjec 
tivity  of  the  writer,  —  a  great  mind,  a  great  soul,  a 
great  personality.  A  work  that  bears  the  imprint 
of  these,  that  is  charged  with  the  life  and  power  of 
these,  which  it  gives  forth  again  under  pressure,  is 
alone  entitled  to  high  rank. 

All  pure  literature  is  the  revelation  of  a  man.  In 
a  work  of  true  literary  art  the  subject  matter  has 
been  so  interpenetrated  and  vitalized  by  the  spirit 
or  personality  of  the  writer,  has  become  so  thor 
oughly  identified  with  it,  that  the  two  are  one  and 
inseparable,  and  the  style  is  the  man.  Works  in 
which  this  blending  and  identification,  through  emo 
tion  or  imagination,  of  the  author  with  his  subject 
has  not  taken  place,  or  has  taken  place  imperfectly, 
do  not  belong  to  pure  literature.  They  may  serve  a 
useful  purpose  ;  but  all  useful  purposes,  in  the  strict 
sense,  are  foreign  to  those  of  art,  which  means  for 
eign  to  the  spirit  that  would  live  in  the  whole,  that 
would  live  in  the  years  and  not  in  the  days,  in  time 
and  not  in  the  hour.  The  true  literary  artist  gives 
you  of  the  substance  of  his  mind  ;  not  merely  his 
thought  or  his  philosophy,  but  something  more  inti 
mate  and  personal  than  that.  It  is  not  a  tangible 
object  passed  from  his  hand  to  yours ;  it  is  much 
more  like  a  transfusion  of  blood  from  his  veins  to 
yours.  Montaigne  gives  us  Montaigne,  —  the  most 


STYLE   AND   THE   MAN  59 

delightfully  garrulous  man  in  literature.  "  These 
are  fancies  of  my  own/'  he  says,  "  by  which  I  do 
not  pretend  to  discover  things,  but  to  lay  open  my 
self."  "  Cut  these  sentences,"  says  Emerson,  "  and 
they  bleed."  Matthew  Arnold  denied  that  Emer 
son  was  a  great  writer ;  but  we  cannot  account  for 
the  charm  and  influence  of  his  works,  it  seems  to 
me,  on  any  other  theory  than  that  he  has  at  least  this 
mark  of  the  great  writer  :  he  gives  his  reader  of  his 
own  substance,  he  saturates  his  page  with  the  high  and 
rare  quality  of  his  own  spirit.  Everything  he  pub 
lished  has  a  distinct  literary  value,  as  distinguished 
from  its  moral  or  religious  value.  The  same  may  be 
said  of  Arnold  himself  :  else  we  should  not  care  much 
for  him.  It  is  a  particular  and  interesting  type  of 
man  that  speaks  and  breathes  in  every  sentence ; 
his  style  is  vital  in  his  matter,  and  is  no  more  sepa 
rable  from  it  than  the  style  of  silver  or  of  gold  is 
separable  from  those  metals. 

In  such  a  writer  as  Lecky  on  the  other  hand,  or 
as  Mill  or  Spencer,  one  does  not  get  this  same  sub 
tle  individual  flavor;  the  work  is  more  external, 
more  the  product  of  certain  special  faculties,  as  the 
reason,  the  memory,  the  understanding ;  and  the  per 
sonality  of  the  author  is  not  so  intimately  involved. 
But  in  the  writer  with  the  creative  touch,  whether 
he  be  poet,  novelist,  historian,  critic,  essayist,  the 
chief  factor  in  the  product  is  always  his  own  person 
ality. 

Style,  then,  in  the  sense  in  which  I  am  here  us 
ing  the  term,  implies  that  vital,  intimate,  personal 


60  LITERARY   VALUES 

relation  of  the  man  to  his  language  by  which  he 
makes  the  words  his  own,  fills  them  with  his  own 
quality,  and  gives  the  reader  that  lively  sense  of  be 
ing  in  direct  communication  with  a  living,  breathing, 
mental  and  spiritual  force.  The  writer  who  appears 
to  wield  his  language  as  an  instrument  or  a  tool,  some 
thing  exterior  to  himself,  who  makes  you  conscious 
of  his  vocabulary,  or  whose  words  are  the  garments 
and  not  the  tissue  of  his  thought,  has  not  style  in 
this  sense.  "  Style,"  says  Schopenhauer,  "  is  the 
physiognomy  of  the  mind,  and  a  safer  index  to  char 
acter  than  the  face."  This  definition  is  as  good  as 
any,  and  better  than  most,  because  it  implies  that 
identification  of  words  with  thoughts,  of  the  man 
with  his  subject,  which  is  the  secret  of  a  living 
style.  Hence  the  man  who  imitates  another  wears 
a  mask,  as  does  the  man  who  writes  in  a  language 
to  which  he  was  not  born. 

ii 

It  has  been  said  that  novel-writing  is  a  much 
finer  art  in  our  day  than  it  was  in  the  time  of  Scott, 
or  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  —  finer,  I  think,  be 
cause  it  is  in  the  hands  of  finer-strung,  more  dain 
tily  equipped  men  ;  but  would  one  dare  to  say  it  is 
a  greater  art  ?  One  may  admit  all  that  is  charged 
about  Scott's  want  of  style,  his  diffuseness  and  cum- 
brousness,  and  his  tedious  descriptions,  and  still  justly 
claim  for  him  the  highest  literary  honors.  He  was 
a  great  nature,  as  Goethe  said,  and  we  come  into 
vital  contact  with  that  great  nature  in  his  romances. 


STYLE   AND   THE   MAN  61 

He  was  not  deficient  in  the  larger  art  that  knows 
how  to  make  a  bygone  age  live  again  to  the  imagina 
tion.  He  himself  seems  to  have  deprecated  his  "  big 
bow-wow  "  style  in  comparison  with  the  exquisite 
touches  of  Jane  Austen.  But  no  fineness  of  work 
manship,  no  deftness  of  handling,  can  make  up  for 
the  want  of  a  large,  rich,  copious  human  endowment. 
I  think  we  need  to  remember  this  when  we  compare 
unfavorably  such  men  as  Dickens  and  Thackeray  with 
the  cleverer  artists  of  our  own  day.  Scott  makes 
up  to  us  for  his  deficiencies  in  the  matter  of  style 
by  the  surpassing  human  interest  of  his  characters 
and  incidents,  their  relations  to  the  major  currents 
of  human  life.  His  scenes  fill  the  stage  of  history, 
his  personages  seem  adequate  to  great  events,  and 
the  whole  story  has  a  certain  historic  grandeur  and 
impressiveness.  There  is  no  mistaking  a  great  force, 
a  great  body,  in  literature  any  more  than  there  is  in 
the  physical  world ;  in  Scott  we  have  come  upon  a 
great  river,  a  great  lake,  a  great  mountain,  and  we 
are  more  impressed  by  it  than  by  the  lesser  bodies, 
though  they  have  many  more  graces  and  pretti- 
nesses. 

Frederic  Harrison,  in  a  recent  address  on  style,  is 
cautious  in  recommending  the  young  writer  to  take 
thought  of  his  style.  Let  him  rather  take  thought 
of  what  he  has  to  say  ;  in  turning  his  ideal  values 
into  the  coin  of  current  speech  he  will  have  an  ex 
ercise  in  style.  If  he  has  no  ideal  values,  then  is 
literature  barred  to  him.  Let  him  cultivate  his  sen 
sibilities  ;  make  himself,  if  possible,  more  quickly 


62  LITERARY   VALUES 

responsive  to  life  and  nature  about  him ;  let  him  try 
to  see  more  clearly  and  feel  more  keenly,  and  con 
nect  his  vocabulary  with  his  most  radical  and  spon 
taneous  self.  Style  can  never  come  from  the  outside, 
—  from  consciously  seeking  it  by  imitating  the  man 
ner  of  favorite  authors.  It  comes,  if  at  all,  like  the 
bloom  upon  fruit,  or  the  glow  of  health  upon  the 
cheek,  from  an  inner  essential  harmony  and  felicity. 

In  a  well  known  passage  Macaulay  tells  what 
happened  to  Miss  Burney  when  she  began  to  think 
about  her  style,  and  fell  to  imitating  Dr.  Johnson  $ 
how  she  lost  the  ''charming  vivacity"  and  "per 
fectly  natural  unconsciousness  of  manner "  of  her 
youthful  writings,  and  became  modish  and  affected. 
She  threw  away  her  own  style,  which  was  a  "  toler 
ably  good  one,"  and  which  might  "have  been  im 
proved  into  a  very  good  one,"  and  adopted  "  a  style 
in  which  she  could  attain  excellence  only  by  achiev 
ing  an  almost  miraculous  victory  over  nature  and 
over  habit.  She  could  cease  to  be  Fanny  Burney ; 
it  was  not  so  easy  to  become  Samuel  Johnson." 

It  is  giving  too  much  thought  to  style  in  the  more 
external  and  verbal  aspects  of  it,  which  I  am  here 
considering,  that  leads  to  the  confounding  of  style 
with  diction,  and  that  gives  rise  to  the  "  stylist." 
The  stylist  shows  you  what  can  be  done  with  mere 
words.  He  is  the  foliage  plant  of  the  literary  flower 
garden.  An  English  college  professor  has  recently 
exploited  him  in  a  highly  wrought  essay  on  Style. 
Says  our  professor,  "  The  business  of  letters  is  two 
fold,  to  find  words  for  meaning  and  to  find  meaning 


STYLE   AND   THE   MAN  63 

for  words."  It  strikes  me  that  the  last  half  of  this 
proposition  is  not  true  of  the  serious  writer,  of  the 
man  who  has  something  to  say,  but  is  true  only  of 
what  is  called  the  stylist,  the  man  who  has  been  so 
often  described  as  one  having  nothing  to  say,  which 
he  says  extremely  well.  The  stylist's  main  effort 
is  a  verbal  one,  to  find  meaning  for  words  ;  he  does 
not  wrestle  with  ideas,  but  with  terms  and  phrases  ; 
his  thoughts  are  word-begotten  and  are  often  as  un 
substantial  as  spectres  and  shadows. 

The  stylist  cultivates  words  as  the  florist  culti 
vates  flowers,  and  a  new  adjective  or  a  new  colloca 
tion  of  terms  is  to  him  what  a  new  chrysanthemum 
or  a  new  pansy  is  to  his  brother  of  the  forcing 
house.  He  is  more  an  European  product  than  an 
American.  London  and  Paris  abound  in  men  who 
cultivate  the  art  of  expression  for  its  own  sake,  who 
study  how  to  combine  words  so  as  to  tickle  the 
verbal  sense  without  much  reference  to  the  value  of 
the  idea  expressed.  Club  and  university  life,  exces 
sive  library  culture  —  a  sort  of  indoor  or  hothouse 
literary  atmosphere  —  foster  this  sort  of  thing. 

French  literature  can  probably  show  more  stylists 
than  English,  but  the  later  school  of  British  writers 
are  not  far  behind  in  the  matter  of  studied  expres 
sion.  Professor  Raleigh,  from  whose  work  on  style 
I  quoted  above,  often  writes  forcibly  and  sugges 
tively  ;  but  one  cannot  help  but  feel,  on  finishing  his 
little  volume,  that  it  is  more  the  work  of  a  stylist 
than  of  a  thinker.  This  is  the  opening  sentence  : 
"  Style,  the  Latin  name  for  an  iron  pen,  has  come 


64  LITERARY   VALUES 

to  designate  the  art  that  handles,  with  ever  fresh 
vitality  and  wary  alacrity,  the  fluid  elements  of 
speech."  Does  not  one  faintly  scent  the  stylist  at 
the  start  ?  Later  on  he  says  :  "  In  proportion  as  a 
phrase  is  memorable,  the  words  that  compose  it  be 
come  mutually  adhesive,  losing  for  a  time  something 
of  their  individual  scope,  —  bringing  with  them,  if 
they  be  torn  away  too  quickly,  some  cumbrous  frag 
ments  of  their  recent  association.7'  Does  not  the 
stylist  stand  fully  confessed  here  ?  That  he  may 
avoid  these  "  cumbrous  fragments  "  that  will  stick 
to  words  when  you  suddenly  pull  them  up  by  the 
roots,  "  a  sensitive  writer  is  often  put  to  his  shifts, 
and  extorts,  if  he  be  fortunate,  a  triumph  from  the 
accident  of  his  encumbrance.'7  The  lust  of  expres 
sion,  the  conjuring  with  mere  words,  is  evident. 
"  He  is  a  poor  stylist,"  says  our  professor,  "  who  can 
not  beg  half  a  dozen  questions  in  a  single  epithet, 
or  state  the  conclusion  he  would  fain  avoid  in  terms 
that  startle  the  senses  into  clamorous  revolt." 

What  it  is  in  one  that  starts  into  "  clamorous  re 
volt "  at  such  verbal  gymnastics  as  are  shown  in 
the  following  sentences  I  shall  not  try  to  define,  but 
it  seems  to  me  it  is  something  real  and  legitimate. 
"  A  slight  technical  implication,  a  faint  tinge  of 
archaism  in  the  common  turn  of  speech  that  you  em 
ploy,  and  in  a  moment  you  have  shaken  off  the  mob 
that  scours  the  rutted  highway,  and  are  addressing  a 
select  audience  of  ticket  holders  with  closed  doors. 
A  single  natural  phrase  of  peasant  speech,  a  direct 
physical  sense  given  to  a  word  that  genteel  parlance 


STYLE   AND  THE  MAN  65 

authorizes  readily  enough  in  its  metaphorical  sense, 
and  at  a  touch  you  have  blown  the  roof  off  the 
drawing-room  of  the  villa  and  have  set  its  ob 
scure  inhabitants  wriggling  in  the  unaccustomed  sun 
shine." 

Amiel  says  of  Kenan  that  science  was  his  material 
rather  than  his  object ;  his  object  was  style.  Yet 
Kenan  was  not  a  stylist  in  the  sense  in  which  I  am 
using  the  word.  His  main  effort  was  never  a  ver 
bal  one,  never  an  effort  to  find  meaning  for  words ; 
he  was  intent  upon  his  subject ;  his  style  was  vital 
in  his  thought,  and  never  took  on  airs  on  its  own 
account.  You  cannot  in  him  separate  the  artist  from 
the  thinker,  nor  give  either  the  precedence.  All 
writers  with  whom  literature  is  an  art  aim  at  style 
in  the  sense  that  they  aim  to  present  their  subject  in 
the  most  effective  form,  —  with  clearness,  freshness, 
force.  They  become  stylists  when  their  thoughts 
wait  upon  their  words,  or  when  their  thoughts  are 
word-begotten.  Such  writers  as  Gibbon,  De  Quin- 
cey,  Macaulay,  have  studied  and  elaborate  styles,  but 
in  each  the  matter  is  paramount  and  the  mind  finds 
something  solid  to  rest  upon. 

"  The  chief  of  the  incommodities  imposed  upon 
the  writer,"  says  Professor  Kaleigh,  is  "  the  neces 
sity  at  all  times  and  at  all  costs  to  mean  something," 
or  to  find  meaning  for  words.  This  no  doubt  is  a 
hard  task.  The  trouble  begins  when  one  has  the 
words  first.  To  invoke  ideas  with  words  is  a  much 
more  difficult  experience  than  the  reverse  process. 
But  probably  all  true  writers  have  something  to  say 


66  LITERARY   VALUES 

before  they  have  the  desire  to  say  it,  and  in  propor 
tion  as  the  thought  is  vital  and  real  is  its  expression 
easy. 

When  I  meet  the  stylist,  with  his  straining  for  ver 
bal  effects,  I  love  to  recall  this  passage  from  Whitman. 
"  The  great  poet/'  he  says,  "  swears  to  his  art,  I  will 
not  be  meddlesome.  I  will  not  have  in  my  writing 
any  elegance  or  effect  or  originality  to  hang  in  the  way 
between  me  and  the  rest,  like  curtains.  I  will  have 
nothing  hang  in  the  way,  not  the  richest  curtains. 
What  I  tell  I  tell  for  precisely  what  it  is.  Let  who 
may,  exalt  or  startle  or  fascinate  or  soothe  ;  I  will 
have  purpose,  as  health  or  heat  or  snow  has,  and  be 
as  regardless  of  observation.  What  I  experience  or 
portray  shall  go  from  my  composition  without  a 
shred  of  my  composition.  You  shall  stand  by  my 
side  and  look  in  the  mirror  with  me." 

This  is  the  same  as  saying  that  the  great  success 
in  writing  is  to  get  language  out  of  the  way  and  to 
put  your  mind  directly  to  the  reader's,  so  that  there 
be  no  veil  of  words  between  you.  If  the  reader  is 
preoccupied  with  your  words,  if  they  court  his  at 
tention  or  cloud  his  vision,  to  that  extent  is  the 
communication  imperfect.  In  some  of  Swinburne's 
poems  there  is  often  such  a  din  and  echo  of  rhyme 
and  alliteration  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  hear 
what  the  man  is  really  saying. 

To  darken  counsel  with  words  is  a  common  oc 
currence.  Words  are  like  lenses,  —  they  must  be 
arranged  in  just  such  a  way,  or  they  hinder  rather 
than  help  the  vision.  When  the  adjustment  is  as  it 


STYLE   AND   THE   MAN  67 

should  be,  the  lens  itself  is  invisible  ;  and  language  in 
the  hands  of  the  master  is  as  transparent.  Some  of 
the  more  recent  British  poets  affect  the  archaic,  the 
quaint,  the  eccentric,  in  language,  so  that  one's  at 
tention  is  almost  entirely  occupied  with  their  words. 
Beading  them  is  like  trying  to  look  through  a  pair 
of  spectacles  too  old  or  too  young  for  you,  or  with 
lenses  of  different  focus. 

But  has  not  style  a  value  in  and  of  itself?  As  in 
the  case  of  light,  its  value  is  in  the  revelation  it 
makes.  Its  value  is  to  conceal  itself,  to  lose  itself  in 
the  matter.  If  humility,  or  self-denial,  or  any  of  the 
virtues  becomes  conscious  of  itself  and  claims  credit 
for  its  own  sake,  does  it  not  that  moment  fall  from 
grace  ?  What  incomparable  style  in  the  passage  I 
have  quoted  from  Whitman  when  we  come  to  think 
of  it,  but  how  it  effaces  itself  and  is  of  no  account 
for  the  sake  of  the  idea  it  serves  !  The  more  a  writ 
er's  style  humbles  itself,  the  more  it  is  exalted. 
There  is  nothing  true  in  religion  that  is  not  equally 
true  in  art.  Give  yourself  entirely.  All  selfish  and 
secondary  ends  are  of  the  devil.  Our  Calvinistic 
grandfathers,  who  fancied  themselves  willing  to  be 
damned  for  the  glory  of  God,  illustrate  the  devotion 
of  the  true  artist  to  his  ideal.  "  Consider  the  lilies 
of  the  field,  .  .  .  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they 
spin."  The  style  of  the  born  poet  or  artist  takes 
as  little  thought  of  itself,  and  is  the  spontaneous 
expression  of  the  same  indwelling  grace  and  neces 
sity. 


68  LITERARY   VALUES 


III 

I  once  overheard  a  lady  say  to  a  popular  author, 
"  What  I  most  admire  about  your  books  is  their  fine 
style."  "  But  I  never  think  about  my  style  "  was 
his  reply.  "  I  know  you  don't/7  said  his  admirer, 
"  and  that  is  why  I  like  it  so  much."  But  we 
may  regard  him  as  thinking  about  his  style,  when 
he  fancied  himself  thinking  only  about  his  matter. 
In  his  case  the  style  and  the  matter  were  one. 
When  he  was  consciously  occupied  only  with  the 
substance  and  texture  of  his  thought,  he  was  oc 
cupied  with  his  style.  Every  effort  to  make  the 
idea  flow  clear  and  pure,  to  give  it  freshness  and 
fillip,  or  to  seize  and  embody  in  words  a  mental  or 
emotional  impression  in  all  its  integrity,  without 
blur  or  confusion,  is  an  effort  in  style.  It  is  like 
taking  the  alloys  and  impurities  out  of  a  metal ; 
the  style  or  beauty  of  it  is  improved.  The  mak 
ing  of  iron  into  steel  is  a  process  of  purification. 
When  Froude  was  questioned  about  his  style,  he 
confessed  that  he  had  never  given  any  thought  to 
the  subject ;  his  aim  had  been  to  say  what  he  had 
to  say  in  the  most  direct  and  simple  way  possible. 
He  was  conscious  only  of  trying  to  see  clearly  and 
to  speak  truly.  I  suppose  this  is  the  case  with  all 
first-class  minds,  in  our  day  at  least :  the  main  en 
deavor  is  directed  toward  the  matter,  and  not  toward 
the  manner  ;  or  rather,  it  is  to  make  the  one  identi 
cal  with  the  other.  In  no  page  of  Froude's,  nor  in 
any  writer  of  equal  range  and  seriousness,  are  we 


STYLE   AND  THE  MAN  69 

conscious  of  the  style  as  something  apart  and  that 
claims  our  admiration  on  its  own  account,  as  we  are 
in  the  case  of  Walter  Pater,  for  example.  Such  men 
as  Pater  are  enamored  of  style  itself,  and  cultivate 
it  for  its  own  sake.  They  conceive  of  it  as  an  inde 
pendent  grace  and  charm  that  may  be  imparted  to 
any  subject  by  dint  of  an  effort  directed  to  verbal 
arrangement  and  sequence  alone. 

IV 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  wisdom  in  Voltaire's  say 
ing  that  "  all  styles  are  good  that  are  not  tiresome." 
Voltaire's  own  style  certainly  had  the  merit  of  not 
tiring.  Even  in  the  English  translation  I  never 
cease  to  marvel  at  its  grace  and  buoyancy.  In  keep 
ing  with  this  dictum  is  the  remark  I  heard  concern 
ing  a  certain  living  writer,  namely,  that  he  had  the 
best  style  in  literature  to-day  because  one  could  read 
fifty  pages  of  his  and  not  know  that  one  was  reading 
at  all ;  it  was  pure  expression  —  offered  no  resistance. 

This  offering  no  resistance,  this  ease  and  limpidity 
—  a  getting  rid  of  all  friction  in  the  written  page  — 
herein  certainly  lies  the  secret  of  much  that  is 
winsome  in  literature.  How  little  friction  the 
mind  encounters  in  Addison,  in  Lamb,  or  in  the 
best  of  our  own  prose  writers ;  and  how  much  in 
Meredith,  and  the  later  writings  of  Henry  James ! 
Is  not  friction  to  be  got  rid  of  as  far  as  possible 
in  all  departments  of  life  ?  One  does  not  want 
his  shoes  to  pinch,  nor  his  coat  to  bind,  neither  does 
he  want  to  waste  any  strength  on  involved  sentences, 


70  LITERARY   VALUES 

or  on  cryptic  language.  Did  you  ever  try  to  row 
a  boat  in  water  in  which  lay  a  sodden  fleece  of 
newly  fallen  snow  ?  I  find  the  reading  of  certain 
books  like  that.  Some  of  Browning's  poems  im 
pede  iny  mind  in  that  way. 

Force  of  impact  —  that  is  another  matter ;  that 
warms  and  quickens  the  mind.  Browning's  "  How 
they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent "  makes 
the  mind  hot  by  its  rush  and  power.  There  is  no 
mere  mechanical  friction  of  elliptical  sentences  and 
obscure  allusions  here. 

Yes,  the  style  that  does  not  tire  us  is  better  than 
the  style  that  does.  Thus  Arnold's  style  is  better  than 
Walter  Pater's,  because  it  is  easier  to  follow  ;  it  is  not 
so  conscious  of  itself ;  it  is  not  so  obviously  studied. 
Pater  studied  words  ;  Arnold  studied  ideas.  Pater 
sacrificed  the  more  familiar  democratic  traits  of 
language  —  ease,  simplicity,  flexibility,  transparency 
—  to  his  passion  for  the  more  choice  aristocratic 
features,  —  the  perfumed,  the  academic,  the  highly 
wrought.  Again,  I  find  Arnold's  style  less  fatiguing 
than  Lowell's,  because  it  has  more  current,  more 
continuity  of  thought,  and  is  freer  from  concetti  and 
mere  surface  sparkle.  I  find  Swinburne's  prose 
more  tiresome  than  that  of  any  contemporary  Brit 
ish  critic,  because  of  its  inflated  polysyllabic  charac 
ter,  and  his  poetry  more  cloying  than  that  of  any 
other  poet,  because  of  its  almost  abnormal  lilt  and 
facility ;  it  has  a  pathological  fluidity ;  it  seems  as 
though,  when  he  begins  to  write  verse,  his  whole 
mental  structure  is  in  danger  of  melting  down  and 


STYLE   AND   THE   MAN  71 

running  away  in  mere  words.  His  heat  is  that  of 
fever ;  his  inspiration  borders  on  delirium. 

We  never  tire  of  Addison  by  reason  of  his  style, 
or  of  Swift  or  of  Lamb  or  of  our  own  Irving  or 
Hawthorne  or  Warner.  It  is  probably  as  rare  to  find 
a  French  writer  whose  style  tires  the  reader  as  it  is 
to  find  a  German  whose  style  does  not.  As  M.  Bru- 
netiere  well  says,  French  literature  is  a  social  litera 
ture,  German  is  philosophic,  and  English  individual 
istic.  It  is  the  business  of  the  first  to  be  agreeable, 
of  the  second  to  be  profound,  of  the  third  to  be  origi 
nal.  Who  does  not  tire  of  Strauss  sooner  than  of 
Kenan,  of  Macaulay  sooner  than  of  Sainte-Beuve  ? 

A  writer  with  a  pronounced,  individualistic  style 
—  one  full  of  mere  mechanical  difficulties,  like 
Browning's  or  Carlyle's  —  runs  great  risk  of  weary 
ing  the  reader  and  of  being  left  behind.  So  far  as 
his  style  degenerates  into  mannerism,  so  far  is  he 
handicapped  in  the  race.  Smoothness  is  not  beauty, 
neither  is  roughness  power  ;  yet  without  a  certain 
harmony  and  continuity  there  is  neither  beauty 
nor  power.  Herbert  Spencer,  in  his  essay  on  the 
Philosophy  of  Style,  would  have  a  writer  avoid  this 
danger  of  wearying  his  reader,  by  writing  alter 
nately  in  different  styles.  "  To  have  a  specific  style," 
he  says,  "  is  to  be  poor  in  speech."  "  The  perfect 
writer  will  express  himself  as  Junius,  when  in  the 
Junius  frame  of  mind ;  when  he  feels  as  Lamb  felt, 
will  use  a  like  familiar  speech ;  and  will  fall  into 
the  ruggedness  of  Carlyle  when  in  a  Carlylean 
mood."  A  man  who  should  try  to  follow  this 


72  LITERARY  VALUES 

advice  would  be  pretty  sure  to  be  Jack-of-all-styles 
and  master  of  none.  What  a  piece  of  patchwork 
his  composition  would  be  !  A  "  specific  style  "  is 
not  to  be  avoided ;  it  is  to  be  cultivated  and  prac 
ticed  till  every  false  note,  every  trace  of  crudeness 
and  insincerity,  is  purged  out  of  it. 

The  secret  of  good  prose  is  a  subtle  quality  or 
flavor,  hard  to  define,  like  that  of  a  good  apple  or 
a  good  melon,  and  it  is  as  intimately  bound  up  in 
the  very  substance  and  texture  in  the  one  case  as 
in  the  other,  and,  we  may  add,  is  of  as  many  varie 
ties.  We  are  sure  always  to  get  good  prose  from  Mr. 
Howells  and  Colonel  Higginson,  but  we  are  not 
always  so  sure  of  getting  it  from  certain  of  our 
younger  novelists. 

Here  is  a  sample  of  bad  prose  from  a  popular 
novel  by  a  Southern  writer  :  — 

"  The  whole  woods  emerged  from  the  divine  bath 
of  nature  with  the  coolness,  the  freshness,  the  im 
mortal  purity  of  Diana  united  to  the  roseate  glow  and 
mortal  tenderness  of  Venus,  and  haunted  by  two 
spirits  :  the  chaste,  unfading  youth  of  Endymion  and 
the  dust-born  warmth  and  eagerness  of  Dionysus." 

Yet  the  man  who  could  permit  himself  the  use  of 
such  inflated  language  as  that,  was  capable  of  turn 
ing  off  such  a  passage  as  this  :  — 

"  Some  women,  in  marrying,  demand  all  and  give 
all  :  with  good  men  they  are  happy ;  with  base  men 
they  are  the  broken-hearted.  Some  demand  every 
thing  and  give  little :  with  weak  men  they  are  ty 
rants  ;  with  strong  men  they  are  the  divorced.  Some 


STYLE   AND   THE   MAN  73 

demand  little  and  give  all :  with  congenial  souls  they 
are  already  in  heaven ;  with  uncongenial  they  are 
soon  in  their  graves.  Some  give  little  and  demand 
little  :  they  are  the  heartless,  and  they  bring  neither 
the  joy  of  life  nor  the  peace  of  death." 

That  is  sound  prose ;  it  is  like  a  passage  from  a 
great  classic. 

When  we  advise  the  young  writer  to  go  honestly 
to  work  to  say  in  the  simplest  manner  what  he  really 
thinks  and  feels,  one  does  not  mean  that  by  this 
course  he  is  likely  to  write  like  the  great  prose  mas 
ters,  but  that  by  this  means  alone  can  his  work  have 
the  basic  qualities  of  good  literature,  —  directness, 
veracity,  vitality,  the  beauty  and  reality  of  natural 
things.  Genuineness  first,  grace  and  eloquence  after 
wards. 

"  The  ugliest  living  face,"  says  Schopenhauer,  "  is 
better  than  a  mask."  It  is  real,  it  is  alive.  So  the 
simple,  direct  speech  of  a  man  in  earnest  is  so  much 
better  than  the  perfunctory  eloquence  one  is  so  often 
compelled  to  hear  or  to  read.  Reality,  reality  — 
nothing  can  make  up  for  a  want  of  reality. 

Sainte-Beuve  said,  as  I  have  already  quoted,  that 
the  peasant  always  has  style ;  the  French  peasant 
probably  more  often  than  any  other.  This  is  cer 
tainly  so  if  we  take  such  a  character  as  Joan  of  Arc 
as  a  typical  peasant.  What  adroitness,  and  at  times, 
classic  beauty  in  her  answer  to  her  judges  !  When 
they  sought  to  entrap  her  with  the  question,  "Do 
you  know  if  you  are  in  the  grace  of  God  ?  "  she  re 
plied,  "If  I  am  not,  may  God  place  me  there  j  if  I  am, 


74  LITERARY   VALUES 

may  God  so  keep  me."  Under  pressure,  the  peasant 
mind,  and  indeed  all  other  minds,  are,  at  times,  ca 
pable  of  these  things.  But  usually  the  charm  of 
rustic  speech  is  in  its  plainness  and  simplicity,  like 
that  of  other  rural  things,  a  bridge,  a  woodshed,  a 
well-sweep,  a  log  house,  —  no  thought  of  style, 
thought  of  service  only.  But  the  beauty  of  what 
may  be  called  the  architectural  style  of  the  great 
prose  masters,  —  Gibbon,  Burke,  Browne,  Hooker, 
De  Quincey,  —  like  the  beauty  of  a  Greek  temple  or 
a  Gothic  cathedral,  is  quite  another  matter.  What 
both  have  in  common  is  the  beauty  of  sincerity  and 
reality. 

The  vernacular  style  of  writers  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  like  Walton,  Fuller,  Baxter,  Jonson,  is  more 
in  keeping  with  the  taste  of  to-day  than  the  rhetori 
cal  arid  highly  wrought  style  of  certain  of  the  eigh 
teenth  and  early  nineteenth  century  writers. 

Hence,  when  we  ascribe  style  to  simple,  homely 
things,  or  to  speech,  we  mean  something  quite  dif 
ferent  from  style  when  applied  to  the  great  composi 
tions  either  in  literature,  music,  or  architecture. 

Milton  could  plan  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme  and 
attain  beauty  ;  Wordsworth  attains  beauty  by  his  sin 
cerity  and  simplicity,  and  his  fervent  love  of  rural 
things.  He  has  not  style  in  the  Miltonic  sense. 
One  has  classic  beauty,  the  other,  natural  or  na'ive 
beauty.  The  monumental  works  of  the  ancients 
were  planned  and  wrought  like  their  architecture, 
and  have  a  beauty  that  rivals  nature.  Shakespeare 
rarely  attains  anything  like  classic  beauty,  and  has 


STYLE  AND   THE   MAN  75 

any    poem  since  Keats' s  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale " 
struck  the  note  firmly  and  surely  ? 

v 

I  have  often  asked  myself  why  it  is  that  the  in 
terviewer  will  sometimes  get  so  much  more  wisdom 
out  of  a  man,  and  so  many  more  fresh  and  enter 
taining  statements  —  in  short,  so  much  better  liter 
ature  —  than  the  man  can  get  out  of  himself.  Is 
it  because  one's  best  and  ripest  thoughts  rise  to  the 
surface,  like  the  cream  on  the  milk,  and  does  the 
interviewer  simply  skim  them  off  ?  Maybe,  in  writ 
ing,  we  often  dip  too  deep,  make  too  great  an  effort. 
Interviews  are  nearly  always  interesting,  —  much 
more  so  than  a  formal  studied  statement  by  the  in 
terviewed  himself.  Many  a  piece  of  sound,  excellent 
literature  has  been  got  out  of  a  man  who  had  no 
skill  at  all  with  the  pen.  His  spoken  word  is  vital 
and  real ;  but  in  a  conscious  literary  effort  the  fire 
is  quenched  at  once.  Hence  the  charm  of  letters, 
of  diaries,  of  the  simple  narrations  and  recitals  of 
pioneers,  farmers,  workers,  or  persons  who  have  no 
conscious  literary  equipment.  Who  would  not  rather 
read  a  bit  of  real  experience  of  a  soldier  in  battle, 
such  as  a  clever  interviewer  could  draw  out  of  him, 
than  to  read  his  general's  studied  account  of  the 
same  engagement  ?  "  To  elaborate  is  of  no  avail," 
says  Whitman.  "  Learned  and  unlearned  feel  that  it 
is  so."  Only  the  great  artist  can  rival  or  surpass  the 
sense  of  reality  we  often  find  in  common  speech.  Set 
a  man  to  writing  out  his  views  or  his  experience  and 


76  LITERARY   VALUES 

the  danger  is  that  he  will  be  too  formal ;  he  will 
get  himself  up  for  the  occasion ;  there  will  be  no 
ease  or  indifference  in  his  manner  ;  he  will  go  to 
delving  in  his  mind,  and  we  shall  miss  the  simple, 
direct  self-expression  that  we  are  after. 

In  Dr.  Johnson's  talk,  as  reported  by  Boswell,  we 
touch  the  real  man  ;  in  the  "  Rambler  "  you  touch 
only  his  clothes  or  periwig.  His  more  formal  writing 
seems  the  product  of  some  kind  of  artificial  put-on 
faculty,  like  the  Sunday  sermons  one  hears  or  the 
newspaper  editorials  one  reads.  The  sermon  is  in 
what  may  be  called  the  surpliced  style,  the  Ram 
bler  in  the  periwigged  style.  Emerson  said  of  Al- 
cott  that  his  conversation  was  wonderful,  but  that 
when  he  sat  down  to  write  his  inspiration  left  him. 
Most  men  are  wiser  in  company  than  in  the  study. 
What  is  interesting  in  a  man  is  what  he  himself 
has  felt  or  seen  or  experienced.  If  you  can  tell  us 
that,  we  shall  listen  eagerly.  The  uncultured  man 
does  not  know  this,  but  seeks  the  far-off  or  the  deep 
down. 

Our  thoughts,  our  opinions,  are  like  apples  on 
the  tree  :  they  must  take  time  to  ripen  ;  and  when 
they  are  ripe,  how  easily  they  fall !  A  mere  nudge 
brings  them  down.  How  easily  the  old  man  talks ; 
how  full  he  is  of  wisdom  !  Time  was  when  his 
tongue  was  tied ;  he  could  not  express  himself ;  his 
thoughts  were  half  formed  and  unripe  ;  they  clung 
tightly  to  the  bough.  Set  him  to  writing,  and  with 
great  labor  he  produced  some  crude,  half-formed  no 
tions  of  his  own,  mixed  with  the  riper  opinions  of 


STYLE   AND   THE   MAN  77 

the  authors  he  had  read.  But  now  his  fruit  has  ma 
tured  and  it  has  mellowed ;  it  has  color  and  flavor ; 
and  his  conversation  abounds  in  wisdom. 

VI 

The  standard  of  style  of  the  last  century  was  more 
aristocratic  than  is  the  standard  of  to-day.  The  im 
portant  words  with  Hume,  Blair,  Johnson,  Boling- 
broke,  as  applied  to  style,  were  elegance,  harmony, 
ornament ;  and  the  chief  of  these  was  elegance  :  the 
composition  must  make  the  impression  of  elegance, 
as  to-day  we  demand  the  impression  of  the  vital  and 
the  real.  Even  the  homely  is  more  suited  to  the 
genius  of  democracy  than  is  the  elegant.  Perhaps  the 
word  is  distasteful  to  modern  ears  from  its  conven 
tional  associations  or  its  appropriation  by  milliners 
and  dressmakers.  One  would  not  care  to  write  in- 
elegantly,  but  would  rather  his  page  did  not  suggest 
the  word  at  all,  as  he  would  have  his  home  or  his 
dress  suggest  the  quieter,  humbler,  more  serviceable 
virtues.  In  the  old  story  of  Bruce's  saying,  the  style 
may  be  said  to  be  homely.  "  I  doubt  I  have  killed 
the  comyn."  "  Ye  doubt  ?  "  replies  Kirkpatrick  ; 
"  I  mak  siccar."  Hume  puts  this  into  elegant  lan 
guage  in  this  wise  :  "Sir  Thomas  Kirkpatrick,  one 
of  Bruce's  friends,  asking  him  soon  after  if  the  traitor 
was  slain,  ( I  believe  so/  replied  Bruce.  ( And  is 
that  a  matter/  cried  Kirkpatrick,  '  to  be  left  to  con 
jecture  ?  I  will  secure  him.7  "  This  is  polite  prose, 
dressed-up  prose,  but  its  charm  for  us  is  gone. 


78  LITERAKY   VALUES 


VII 

There  are  as  many  styles  as  there  are  moods  and 
tempers  in  men.  Words  may  be  used  so  as  to  give 
us  a  sense  of  vigor,  a  sense  of  freshness,  a  sense  of 
the  choice  and  scholarly,  or  of  the  dainty  and  exclu 
sive,  or  of  the  polished  and  elaborate,  or  of  heat  or 
cold,  or  of  any  other  quality  known  to  life.  Every 
work  of  genius  has  its  own  physiognomy  —  sad, 
cheerful,  frowning,  yearning,  determined,  meditative. 
This  book  has  the  face  of  a  saint ;  that  of  a  scholar 
or  a  seer.  Here  is  the  feminine,  there  the  mascu 
line  face.  One  has  the  clerical  face,  one  the  judi 
cial.  Each  appeals  to  us  according  to  our  tempera 
ments  and  mental  predilections.  Who  shall  say 
which  style  is  the  best  ?  What  can  be  better  than 
the  style  of  Huxley  for  his  purpose,  —  sentences  level 
and  straight  like  a  hurled  lance  ;  or  than  Emerson's 
for  his  purpose,  —  electric  sparks,  the  sudden,  unex 
pected  epithet  or  tense,  audacious  phrase,  that  gives 
the  mind  a  wholesome  shock  ;  or  than  Gibbon's  for 
his  purpose,  —  a  style  like  solid  masonry,  every  sen 
tence  cut  four  square,  and  his  work,  as  Carlyle  said 
to  Emerson,  a  splendid  bridge,  connecting  the  an 
cient  world  with  the  modern  ;  or  than  De  Quincey's 
for  his  purpose,  —  a  discursive,  roundabout  style, 
herding  his  thoughts  as  a  collie  dog  herds  sheep ;  or 
than  Arnold's  for  his  academic  spirit,  —  a  style  like 
cut  glass  ;  or  than  Whitman's  for  his  continental 
spirit,  —  the  processional,  panoramic  style  that  gives 
the  sense  of  mass  and  multitude  ?  Certain  things  we 


STYLE   AND   THE   MAN  79 

may  demand  of  every  man's  style,  —  that  it  shall  do 
its  work,  that  it  shall  touch  the  quick.  To  be  color 
less  like  Arnold  is  good,  and  to  have  color  like  Rus- 
kin  is  good ;  to  be  lofty  and  austere  like  the  old 
Latin  and  Greek  authors  is  good,  and  to  be  playful 
and  discursive  like  Dr.  Holmes  is  good  ;  to  be  con 
densed  and  epigrammatic  like  Bacon  pleases,  and  to 
be  flowing  and  copious  like  Macaulay  pleases.  Within 
certain  limits  the  manner  that  is  native  to  the  man, 
the  style  that  is  a  part  of  himself,  is  what  wears 
best.  What  we  do  not  want  in  any  style  is  hard 
ness,  glitter,  tumidity,  superfetation,  unreality. 

In  treating  of  nature  or  outdoor  themes,  let  the 
style  have  limpidness,  sweetness,  freshness  ;  in  cri 
ticism  let  it  have  dignity,  lucidity,  penetration ;  in 
history  let  it  have  mass,  sweep,  comprehension ;  in 
all  things  let  it  have  vitality,  sincerity,  and  genuine 
ness. 


IV 

CRITICISM  AND   THE   MAN 


*T~T  looks  as  though  we  were  never  to  get  to  the 
-*-  end  of  the  discussion  about  criticism  —  its  scope, 
aims,  functions,  any  more  than  we  are  likely  to  get 
to  the  end  of  the  discussion  of  any  real  question  in 
philosophy,  ethics,  or  religion. 

Is  the  aim  of  literary  criticism  judgment,  or  in 
terpretation,  or  analysis,  or  description  ?  May  it  not 
have  all  these  aims  ?  For  myself,  I  am  disposed  to 
answer  in  the  affirmative. 

I  doubt  if  there  will  ever  be  a  critical  method 
which  all  may  apply.  Every  man  will  have  his  own 
method,  as  truly  as  he  has  his  own  manners.  The 
French  critic  Scherer  inclines  to  "  the  method  which 
sets  to  work  to  comprehend  rather  than  to  class,  to 
explain  rather  than  to  judge,"  or  which  asks  as  the 
first  step  to  possess  itself  of  the  author's  point  of 
view.  This  is  substantially  Pope's  dictum  that  a 
work  is  to  be  read  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  writ 
ten,  and  it  accords  with  Heine's  saying  that  the  critic 
is  to  ask,  "  What  does  the  artist  intend  ?  "  This  is  a 
part  of,  but  does  it  sum  up,  the  critical  function  ? 

A  man's  writing  upon  the  works  of  another  takes 


CRITICISM  AND   THE   MAN  81 

the  form  of  description  and  analysis  —  like  the  re 
port  of  a  naturalist  upon  a  new  species,  which  Mr. 
Howells  thinks  is  the  main  function  of  criticism  ; 
or  it  may  aim  chiefly  at  interpretation,  which  a  recent 
essayist  emphasizes  as  the  latest  and  highest  phase 
of  criticism  ;  or  it  may  aim  at  a  judicial  estimate,  an 
authoritative  verdict  from  the  rules  and  standards, 
which  is  the  more  classic  and  academic  phase  of  crit 
icism. 

Each  phase  is  legitimate  and  leads  to  valuable  re 
sults. 

Of  any  considerable  artistic  work  we  want  a  de 
scription  and  an  analysis,  we  want  an  interpretation 
and  an  exposition,  and  we  want  an  appraisement  ac 
cording  to  the  standard  of  the  best  that  has  been 
thought  and  done  in  the  world,  —  not  a  comparison 
with  the  externals  of  the  accepted  models,  but  with 
the  originality,  the  spontaneity,  the  sanity,  the  in 
ner  necessity  and  consistency  of  them  —  the  truth 
to  nature  and  to  the  laws  of  the  human  mind.  Is 
it  liberating,  vitalizing,  cheering  ?  Is  it  ethically 
sound  ?  Does  it  favor  large  and  manly  ideals  ?  Does 
it  go  along  with  evolution  and  progress  ? 

What,  for  instance,  will  criticism  do  with  the 
work  of  such  a  man  as  Whitman,  or  Ibsen,  or  Tol 
stoi  ?  It  will  describe  it  and  analyze  it,  and  name 
it  as  lyric,  epic,  dramatic,  etc. ;  it  will  interpret  it,  or 
draw  out  and  expound  the  ideas  that  lie  back  of  it 
and  out  of  which  it  sprang  ;  it  will  seek  to  under 
stand  it  and  to  get  at  the  writer's  point  of  view ; 
then  it  will  judge  it,  try  it  by  its  own  standards,  and 


82  LITERARY  VALUES 

seek  to  estimate  the  value  of  these  standards  as 
they  stand  related  to  the  best  aims  and  achievements 
of  the  human  mind. 

We  demand  of  these  men  what  we  demand  of 
Browning,  Tennyson,  Hugo,  and  every  other  poet 
and  writer  of  high  claims,  —  genuineness,  sincerity, 
power,  inspiration,  and  that  they  awaken  in  us  fresh 
and  vivid  currents  of  ideas  and  emotions.  We  shall 
not  quarrel  with  their  methods,  or  materials,  or  their 
form,  or  formlessness,  but  they  must  go  to  the  quick. 
All  our  pleasure  and  profit  in  great  art  —  painting, 
sculpture,  architecture,  poetry  —  is  at  last  one,  a  new 
experience  of  the  beauty  and  significance  of  nature 
and  life.  We  are  made  to  feel  these  emotions  afresh 
and  as  if  for  the  first  time. 

Here  are  the  old  eternal  elements,  —  life,  nature, 
the  soul,  man  and  woman,  all  in  danger  of  becoming 
dull,  commonplace,  uninteresting  to  us.  But  the 
man  with  the  creative  touch  gives  us  a  new  and  lively 
sense  of  them,  by  presenting  them  to  us  in  new  com 
binations  and  under  new  lights.  The  only  new  thing 
added  is  himself,  —  the  quality  or  flavor  of  his  own 
genius. 

A  complete  criticism  will  not  limit  itself  to  de 
scription  or  to  interpretation ;  it  will  seek  to  esti 
mate,  to  bring  out  the  relative  or  absolute  value  of 
the  thing.  Mr.  Howells  in  his  trenchant  little  vol 
ume  on  "  Criticism  and  Fiction,"  says  the  critic  has 
no  more  business  to  trample  on  a  poem,  a  novel,  or 
ian  essay  that  does  not  please  him,  than  the  botanist 
has  to  grind  a  plant  under  his  heel  because  he  does 


CRITICISM  AND   THE   MAN  83 

not  find  it  pretty.  His  business  "  is  to  classify  and 
analyze  the  fruits  of  the  human  mind  as  the  natural 
ist  classifies  the  objects  of  his  study,  rather  than  to 
praise  or  blame  them." 

To  classify  and  analyze  the  fruits  of  the  human 
mind  is  certainly  one  of  the  functions  of  criticism,  and 
only  one.  The  analogy  Mr.  Howells  employs  is  mis 
leading.  We  do  not  sit  in  judgment  on  natural  spe 
cimens  and  products  except  as  they  stand  related  to 
human  wants  and  utilities.  We  compare  climates, 
seasons,  soils,  landscapes,  with  reference  to  racial  and 
individual  needs  and  well-being.  If  you  bring  me 
trees  from  the  woods  or  stone  from  the  quarry  to 
build  my  house  with,  I  am  bound  to  sit  in  judgment 
upon  them.  And  when  my  house  is  built,  my  neigh 
bors  will  sit  in  judgment  upon  it.  Of  all  artificial 
things,  of  all  man's  works,  we  are  bound  to  ask,  Are 
they  well  done  ?  are  they  what  they  should  be  ?  are 
they  the  best  of  their  kind  ?  Shall  we  not  ask  these 
questions  of  the  poem  also,  of  the  novel,  the  essay, 
the  history  ? 

Art  has  relations  to  life,  and  the  critic  is  bound  to 
consider  what  these  relations  are  in  any  given  work, 
—  how  true,  how  important ;  he  is  examining  a  human 
product,  not  a  natural  specimen,  and  is  as  competent 
to  reject  as  to  accept ;  he  must  compare,  weigh,  ap 
praise,  to  the  best  of  his  ability. 

The  specimens  of  natural  history  are  perfect  after 
their  kind ;  the  main  question  with  them  is,  to  which 
kind  or  species  does  a  given  specimen  belong  ?  But 
the  poem  or  the  history  or  the  novel  is  not  always 


84  LITERARY  VALUES 

perfect  after  its  kind.  Their  kind  is  usually  obvi 
ous  at  a  glance,  but  their  merits  or  demerits,  their 
relation  to  the  best  that  has  been  thought  and  done 
in  the  world,  are  not  so  obvious.  Hence  we  praise 
or  blame  according  as  they  come  up  to  or  fall  short 
of  their  own  ideal.  The  critic  is  not  so  much  a  bot 
anist  naming  a  new  flower,  as  he  is  a  brother  gar 
dener  criticising  your  horticulture,  or  a  brother  law 
yer  criticising  your  brief.  We  are  all  critics  in  this 
sense  one  way  or  another  every  day  of  our  lives  ;  we 
try  to  get  at  the  real  value  of  whatever  is  offered  us, 
whether  it  be  lands,  houses,  goods,  friends,  stocks, 
bonds,  news,  pictures,  or  books  ;  we  criticise  the  men 
we  deal  with  and  employ  in  order  to  find  out  whom 
to  trust ;  we  must  have  our  wits  about  us  when  we 
go  to  market  or  go  shopping.  The  critical  habit  — 
sifting,  testing,  comparing,  to  get  at  the  true  value  of 
things  —  goes  with  us  through  life,  or  else  we  come 
often  to  grief.  The  finer  the  product,  or  the  higher 
the  purpose  it  serves,  the  more  careful  is  our  inves 
tigation. 

When  we  come  to  literature  and  art  our  worldly 
practical  wisdom  does  not  carry  very  far.  It  is  not 
now  a  question  of  fact  or  of  material  values,  but  of 
ideal  and  aesthetic  values  ;  it  is  a  question  of  truth 
to  nature  and  to  life,  and  of  the  largest,  most  vital 
truth.  The  mass  of  readers  have  little  power  of 
divining  the  good  from  the  bad,  the  true  from  the 
false,  in  this  field.  Not  the  first  best,  but  the  sec 
ond  or  third  best  will  draw  the  multitude. 

The  literary  value  of  a  work  is  more  intangible 


CRITICISM  AND   THE   MAN  85 

and  elusive,  harder  to  define  and  bring  out,  than  its 
scientific  or  moral  or  other  values.  It  resides  in  a 
certain  vitality  and  genuineness  of  expression  ;  we 
have  a  sense  of  having  come  face  to  face  with  some 
thing  real  and  alive  in  the  man,  and  not,  as  is  so  often 
the  case,  with  something  assumed  or  put  on.  There 
is  always  an  original  inherent  quality  and  flavor,  as 
in  natural  products.  The  language  is  not  the  mere 
garment  of  the  thought,  it  is  the  very  texture  and 
substance.  In  all  true  literature  something  more 
than  mind  and  erudition  speak,  —  a  man  speaks ; 
a  vital  personality  is  imminent,  —  a  Charles  Lamb, 
a  Wordsworth,  a  Carlyle,  a  Huxley,  an  Emerson,  a 
Thoreau,  a  Lowell,  —  all  distinct  types  of  intelli 
gence  speaking  through  character. 

Self-expression  within  certain  limits  is  as  impor 
tant  in  criticism  as  in  any  other  form  of  literature. 

The  French  critic  Ferdinand  Brunetiere  says  that 
the  truly  personal  way  of  seeing  and  feeling,  which  is 
a  merit  of  the  poet  and  the  novelist,  is  a  fault  in  the 
critic,  because  the  critical  function  is  mainly  a  judi 
cial  one. 

In  every  man  there  is  the  common  humanity,  a 
measure  of  the  pure  reason  which  he  shares  with  all ; 
then  there  are  the  race  traits,  the  family  traits,  the 
bias  of  his  times,  the  bent  given  by  his  training  and 
surroundings,  and  his  own  special  stamp  and  make 
up,  —  what  we  call  his  idiosyncrasy.  All  these 
things  will  play  a  part  in  his  view  of  any  matter. 
His  success  as  a  critic  is  when  his  humanity,  his  pure 
intelligence,  furnishes  the  light  which  is  only  colored 


86  LITERARY   VALUES. 

or  refracted  by  its  passage  through  these  elements. 
But  colored  and  refracted  it  will  be,  and  it  is  this 
coloring  and  refraction  or  stamp  of  the  personal  equa 
tion  that  gives  value  and  charm  to  the  man's  work  as 
literature.  Reduce  criticism  to  a  science,  or  elimi 
nate  the  element  of  impressionism,  and  the  result  is 
no  longer  literature.  The  reason  may  be  convinced, 
but  the  emotions  are  untouched. 

The  one  thing  that  distinguishes  all  modern  lit 
eratures  from  the  works  of  the  ancient  or  classic 
period  is  their  more  permanent  subjectivity,  and  the 
piercing  lyrical  note  in  them. 

Self-expression  has  been  the  aim  of  the  modern 
artist  in  a  much  fuller  sense  than  it  was  with  the 
artists  of  the  pagan  world.  Our  religion  is  a  per 
sonal  and  subjective  religion,  —  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  is  within.  Christianity  turned  the  thoughts 
of  men  upon  themselves.  Self-examination,  self-crit 
icism  began.  Man  became  conscious  of  himself,  of 
his  sins,  and  of  his  shortcomings,  and  learned  to  be 
more  interested  in  the  elements  of  his  own  character. 

There  is  probably  no  greater  delusion  than  that 
under  which  the  critic  labors  when  he  thinks  he  is 
trying  the  new  work  by  the  standard  of  the  best  that 
has  been  thought  and  achieved  in  the  world.  He  is 
trying  it  by  his  own  conception  of  that  standard ; 
so  much  of  it  as  is  vital  in  his  own  mind  he  can 
apply,  and  no  more.  His  own  individual  taste  and 
judgment  are,  after  all,  his  tests.  The  standard  of 
the  best  is  not  some  rule  of  thumb  or  of  yardstick 
that  every  one  can  apply ;  only  the  best  can  apply 
the  best. 


CRITICISM  AND   THE  MAN  87 

Impressionism,  therefore,  is  at  the  bottom  of  all 
criticism,  in  whatever  field.  The  impression  which 
the  work  makes  upon  your  intelligence,  your  taste, 
your  judgment,  is  all  that  you  can  finally  give. 

Criticism  in  France,  where  the  art  has  been  more 
assiduously  cultivated  than  in  any  other  country, 
seems  divided  between  judicial  critics  like  Brune- 
tiere  and  impressionist  critics  like  Lemaitre.  The 
latter  states  in  terms  of  his  own  likes  arid  dislikes 
what  the  other  aims  to  state  in  terms  of  the  imper 
sonal  reason.  But  their  conclusions  are  likely  to 
differ  only  as  their  temperaments  and  innate  affini 
ties  differ.  Brunetiere  has  the  more  dogmatic  mind 
and  the  more  violent  antipathies.  He  could  call 
Sainte-Beuve  a  rat,  —  a  verdict  that  savors  more  of 
political  and  religious  intolerance  than  of  the  impar 
tial  reason. 

Are  we  not  coming  more  and  more  to  demand 
that  in  all  literary  and  artistic  productions,  the  pro 
ducer  be  present  in  his  work,  not  merely  as  mind, 
as  pure  intelligence,  but  also  as  a  distinct  personal 
ity,  giving  a  flavor  of  his  own  to  the  principles  he 
utters  ?  Every  vital  creative  work  is  the  revelation 
of  a  man  as  well  as  of  a  mind,  and  this  is  true  in 
criticism  no  less  than  in  other  forms  of  literature. 

Suppose  Brunetiere's  criticism  lacked  that  which 
makes  it  Brunetiere's,  or  Arnold's  lacked  that  which 
makes  it  Arnold's,  should  we  long  care  for  it  ?  Elim 
inate  from  the  works  of  these  men  all  that  is  indi 
vidual,  all  that  in  each  makes  the  impression  of  a 
new  literary  force,  the  accent  of  personality,  and 


88  LITERARY  VALUES 

you  take  from  the  salt  its  savor.  Dare  we  say  that 
the  most  precious  thing  in  literature  is  the  indi 
vidual  and  the  specific  ?  Is  not  a  platitude  a  plat 
itude  because  it  lacks  just  these  things  ?  The 
vague  and  the  general  may  be  had  in  any  quantity, 
at  any  time.  The  distinct  and  the  characteristic 
are  always  rare.  How  many  featureless  novels, 
featureless  poems,  featureless  discourses,  how  much 
savorless  criticism  of  one  kind  and  another,  every 
community  produces !  Now  and  then  we  catch  a 
distinct  personal  note,  a  new,  penetrating  voice,  and 
this  we  remember  and  follow  in  criticism  as  readily 
as  in  poetry  or  fiction.  Have  we  not  here  the  se 
cret  of  the  greater  interest  we  take  in  signed  criti 
cism  over  unsigned  ? 

The  pure,  disinterested,  impersonal  reason  is  a 
fine  thing  to  contemplate.  Who  would  flout  it  or 
deny  it  ?  One  might  as  well  throw  stones  at  the 
sun.  But  as  the  pure  white  light  of  the  sun  is 
broken  up  into  a  thousand  hues  and  shades  as  it 
comes  back  to  us  from  the  living  world,  so  the  light 
of  reason  comes  to  us  from  literature  in  a  thou 
sand  blended  tints  and  colors,  or  as  modified  by  the 
varying  moods  and  temperaments  of  the  individual 
writers.  Whether  or  not  we  want  or  have  a  right 
to  expect  this  pure  white  light  in  criticism,  what 
we  get  is  the  light  as  it  is  reduced  or  colored  by 
the  critic's  personality,  —  the  media  of  his  time, 
his  race,  his  personal  equation.  It  must  render  ac 
curately  the  objects,  form  and  feature  ;  but  the  hue, 
the  atmosphere,  the  sentiment  of  it  all,  the  highest 


CRITICISM  AND   THE   MAN  89 

value  of  it  all,  will  be  the  contribution  of  the  critic's 
most  private  and  radical  self. 

Every  eminent  writer  has  his  way  of  looking  at 
things,  gives  his  own  coloring  to  general  truths, 
and  it  is  this  that  endears  him  to  us.  Is  the  word 
he  speaks  his  word,  —  is  it  inevitable,  the  verdict 
of  his  character,  the  outcome  of  that  which  is  most 
vital  and  characteristic  in  him  ?  Or  is  it  something 
he  has  learned,  or  the  result  of  fashion,  convention, 
imitation  ? 

See  how  the  old  elements  of  the  air,  soil,  water, 
forever  recombine  under  the  touch  of  that  mysteri 
ous  something  we  call  life,  and  produce  new  herb 
age,  new  flowers,  new  fruit,  new  men,  new  women, 
—  forever  and  yet  never  the  same.  So  do  the  forces 
of  man's  spirit  recombine  with  the  old  facts  and 
truisms,  and  produce  new  art  and  new  literature. 

ii 

Is  it  not  equally  true  that  the  value  of  criticism 
as  a  guide  to  the  judgment  or  the  taste,  teaching  us 
what  to  admire  and  what  to  condemn,  is  less  than 
its  value  as  an  intellectual  pleasure  and  stimulus,  its 
power  to  awaken  ideas  ?  Judgment  is  good,  but 
inspiration  is  better.  How  rarely  we  make  the 
judgments  of  the  greatest  critics  our  own !  We 
are  pleased  when  they  confirm  our  own,  but  is 
not  our  main  interest  and  profit  in  what  the  critic 
gives  us  out  of  himself  ?  We  do  not,  for  instance, 
care  very  much  for  Carlyle's  literary  judgments, 
but  for  Carlyle's  quality  of  mind,  his  flashes  of 


90  LITERARY  VALUES 

poetic  insight,  his  burden  of  conscience,  his  power 
of  portraiture,  his  heroic  moral  fibre,  we  care  a  great 
deal.  Arnold  thought  Carlyle's  criticism  less  sound 
than  Johnson's,  —  more  tainted  with  engouement, 
with  passion  and  appetite,  as  it  probably  is ;  but 
how  much  more  incentive,  how  much  more  quicken 
ing  power,  how  much  more  of  the  stuff  of  which 
life  is  made,  do  we  get  from  Carlyle  than  from 
Johnson  or  from  Arnold  himself  ! 

That  the  criticism  is  sound  is  not  enough,  —  it 
must  also  warm  and  stimulate  the  mind  ;  and  if  it 
do  this  we  shall  not  trouble  ourselves  very  much 
about  its  conclusions.  Even  M.  Brunetiere  says  that 
there  are  masterpieces  in  the  history  of  literature 
and  art  whose  authors  were  downright  fools,  as  there 
are,  on  the  other  hand,  mediocre  works  from  the  hands 
of  men  of  vast  intelligence.  Very  many  readers,  I 
fancy,  will  not  rest  in  the  main  conclusions  at  which 
Tolstoi  arrives  in  his  recent  discussion  of  the  ques 
tion  "  What  is  art  ?  "  but  who  can  fail  to  feel  that 
here  is  a  large,  sincere,  helpful  soul,  whose  concep 
tion  of  life  and  of  art  is  of  great  value  ?  If  we  were 
to  estimate  Buskin  by  the  soundness  of  his  judg 
ments  alone,  we  should  miss  the  most  important  part 
of  him.  It  is  as  a  prophet  of  life  as  well  as  a  critic 
of  art  that  we  value  him.  Would  he  be  a  better 
critic  were  he  less  a  prophet  ? 

Or  take  a  more  purely  critical  mind,  such  as  Mat 
thew  Arnold's.  Do  we  care  very  much  even  for  his 
literary  judgments  ?  Do  we  not  care  much  more  for 
his  qualities  as  a  writer,  —  his  lucidity,  his  central- 


CRITICISM  AND   THE   MAN  91 

ity,  his  style,  his  continuity  of  thought,  his  turns  of 
expression,  his  particular  interpretation  of  literature 
and  life  ?  His  opinions  may  he  sound,  but  this  is 
not  the  secret  of  his  power ;  it  resides  in  something 
more  intimate  and  personal  to  himself.  The  late 
Principal  Shairp  was  probably  as  sound  a  critic  as 
was  Arnold,  but  his  work  is  of  much  less  interest, 
because  it  does  not  contain  the  same  vital  expression 
of  a  new  and  distinct  type  of  mind.  Arnold  was  a 
better  critic  of  literature  than  of  life  and  history. 
There  were  other  values  than  literary  ones  that  were 
not  so  clearly  within  his  range.  In  1870  he  thought 
the  Germans  would  stand  a  poor  chance  in  the  war 
with  France.  How  could  the  German  Gemeinheit, 
or  commonness,  stand  up  before  the  French  esprit  ? 
In  our  civil  war,  he  expected  the  South  to  win. 
Did  not  the  South  have  distinction  ?  But  distinc 
tion  counts  for  more  in  style  than  in  war.  Arnold's 
criticism  has  the  great  merit  of  being  a  clear  and  for 
cible  expression  of  a  fine-bred,  high-toned,  particu 
lar  type  of  man,  and  that  type  a  pure  and  noble 
one.  There  was  no  bungling,  no  crudeness,  no  strain 
ing,  no  confusion,  no  snap  judgment,  and  apparently 
no  bias.  He  was  as  steady  as  a  clock.  His  ideas 
were  continuous  and  homogeneous ;  they  run  like 
living  currents  all  through  his  works,  and  give  them 
unity  and  definitiveness.  He  is  not  to  be  effaced  or 
overthrown  ;  he  is  only  to  be  matched  and  appraised. 
His  word  is  not  final,  but  it  is  fit  and  challenges 
your  common  sense.  His  contribution  flows  into 
the  current  of  English  criticism  like  a  clear  stream 


92  LITERARY  VALUES 

into  a  turbid  one  ;  it  is  not  deep,  but  pellucid,  —  a 
tributary  that  improves  the  quality  of  the  whole. 
It  gives  us  that  refreshment  and  satisfaction  that  we 
always  get  from  the  words  of  a  man  who  speaks  in 
his  owtf  right  and  from  ample  grounds  of  personal 
conviction. 

Positive  judgments  in  literature  or  in  art,  or  in 
any  matters  of  taste,  are  dangerous  things.  The 
crying  want  always  is  for  new,  fresh  power  to  break 
up  the  old  verdicts  and  opinions,  and  set  all  afloat 
again.  "  We  must  learn  under  the  master  how  to 
destroy  him."  The  great  critic  gives  us  courage  to 
reverse  his  judgments.  Dr.  Johnson  said  that  Dry- 
den  was  the  writer  who  first  taught  us  to  determine 
the  merit  of  composition  upon  principle  ;  but  criti 
cism  has  been  just  as  much  at  variance  with  itself 
since  Dryden's  time  as  it  was  before.  It  is  an  art, 
and  not  a  science,  —  one  of  the  forms  of  literary  art, 
wherein,  as  in  all  other  forms  of  art,  the  man,  and 
not  the  principle,  is  the  chief  factor. 

ill 

When  one  thinks  of  it,  how  diverse  and  contra 
dictory  have  been  the  judgments  of  even  the  best 
critics  !  Behold  how  Macaulay's  verdicts  differ  from 
Carlyle's,  Carlyle's  from  Arnold's,  Arnold's  from 
Frederic  Harrison's  or  Morley's  or  Stephen's  or 
Swinburne's ;  how  Taine  and  Sainte-Beuve  diverge 
upon  Balzac  ;  how  Eenan  and  Arnold  diverge  upon 
Hugo ;  how  Lowell  and  Emerson  diverge  upon  Whit 
man  ;  and  how  wide  apart  are  contemporary  critics 


CRITICISM   AND   THE   MAN  93 

about  the  merits  of  Browning,  Ibsen,  Tolstoi.  Lan- 
dor  could  not  tolerate  Dante,  and  even  the  great 
Goethe  told  Eckermann  that  Dante  was  one  of  the 
authors  he  was  forbidden  to  read.  In  Byron's  judg 
ment,  Griffiths  and  Rogers  were  greater  poets  than 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.  The  German  Professor 
Grimm  sees  in  Goethe  "  the  greatest  poet  of  all 
times  and  all  people,"  which  makes  Matthew  Arnold 
smile.  Chateaubriand  considered  Racine  as  much 
superior  to  Shakespeare  as  the  Apollo  Belvidere  is 
superior  to  an  uncouth  Egyptian  statue.  Every  na 
tion,  says  a  French  critic,  has  its  chords  of  sensi 
bility  that  are  utterly  incomprehensible  to  another. 
"  Many  and  diverse,"  says  Arnold,  "  must  be  the 
judgments  passed  upon  every  great  poet,  upon  every 
considerable  writer."  And  it  seems  that  the  greater 
the  writer  or  poet,  the  more  diverse  and  contradic 
tory  will  be  the  judgments  upon  him.  The  small 
men  are  easily  disposed  of,  —  there  is  no  dispute 
about  them ;  but  the  great  ones  baffle  and  try  us. 
It  is  around  their  names,  as  Sainte-Beuve  some 
where  remarks,  that  there  goes  on  a  perpetual  critical 
tournament. 

It  would  seem  that  the  nearer  we  are,  in  point  of 
time,  to  an  event,  a  man,  a  book,  a  work  of  art,  the 
less  likely  we  are  to  estimate  them  rightly,  especially 
if  they  are  out  of  the  usual  and  involve  great  ques 
tions  and  points.  Such  a  poet  as  Dante  or  Victor 
Hugo  or  Whitman,  or  such  a  character  as  Napoleon 
or  Cromwell  or  John  Brown,  or  such  an  artist  as 
Angelo  or  Turner  or  Millet,  will  require  time  to 


94  LITERARY   VALUES 

settle  his  claim.  In  literature,  the  men  of  the  high 
est  order,  to  be  understood,  must  undoubtedly,  in  a 
measure,  wait  for  the  growth  of  the  taste  of  them 
selves,  or  until  their  own  ideals  have  become  at  home 
in  men's  minds.  With  every  great  innovation,  in 
whatever  field,  every  year  that  passes  finds  our 
minds  better  adjusted  to  it  and  more  keenly  alive  to 
its  merits.  Contemporary  criticism  is  bound  to  be 
contradictory.  Men  take  opposite  views  of  current 
questions ;  they  are  too  near  them  to  see  all  their 
bearings.  How  different  the  aspect  the  slavery  ques 
tion  wears  at  this  distance,  and  the  civil  war  that 
grew  out  of  it,  from  the  face  they  wore  a  generation 
or  two  ago !  It  is  only  the  few  great  minds  that  see 
to-day  what  the  masses  will  see  to-morrow.  They 
occupy  a  vantage  ground  of  character  and  principle 
that  is  like  an  eminence  in  a  landscape,  commanding 
a  wide  view.  Sainte-Beuve  certainly  did  injustice  to 
Balzac,  and  Scherer  to  Beranger.  Theirs  were  con 
temporary  judgments,  and  personal  antipathy  played 
a  large  part  in  them.  Sainte-Beuve  says  that  when 
two  good  intellects  pass  totally  different  judgments 
on  the  same  author,  it  is  because  they  are  not  fixing 
their  thoughts,  for  the  moment,  on  the  same  object ; 
they  have  not  the  whole  of  him  before  their  eyes  ; 
their  view  does  not  take  him  in  entirely.  That  is 
just  it :  we  each  look  for  different  values ;  we  are 
more  keenly  alive  to  some  merits  than  to  others ; 
what  one  critic  misses  another  sees.  We  are  more 
or  less  like  chemical  elements,  that  unite  eagerly 
with  some  of  their  fellows,  and  not  with  others. 


CRITICISM   AND   THE   MAN  95 

The  elective  affinities  are  at  work  everywhere,  — 
where  is  the  critical  genius  that  is  a  universal 
solvent  ?  Probably  Sainte-Beuve  himself  comes  as 
near  it  as  anybody  who  has  lived. 

IV 

It  is  not  truth  alone  that  makes  literature ;  it  is 
truth  plus  a  man.  Readers  fancy  they  are  inter 
ested  in  the  birds  and  flowers  they  find  in  the  pages  of 
the  poets  ;  but  no,  it  is  the  poets  themselves  that  they 
are  interested  in.  There  are  the  same  birds  and  flow 
ers  in  the  fields  and  woods,  —  do  they  care  for  them  ? 
In  many  of  the  authors  of  whom  Sainte-Beuve  writes 
I  have  no  interest,  but  I  am  always  interested  in 
Sainte-Beuve's  view  of  them,  in  the  play  of  his  in 
telligence  and  imagination  over  and  around  them. 
After  reading  his  discussion  of  Cowper,  or  Fenelon, 
or  Massillon,  or  Pascal,  it  is  not  the  flavor  of  these 
writers  that  remains  in  my  mind,  but  the  flavor  of 
the  critic  himself.  I  am  under  his  spell,  and  not 
that  of  his  subject.  Is  not  this  equally  true  of  the 
criticism  of  Goethe,  or  Carlyle,  or  Macaulay,  or 
Lamb,  or  Hazlitt,  or  Coleridge,  or  any  other  ?  The 
pages  of  these  writers  are  no  more  a  transparent 
medium,  through  which  we  see  the  subject  as  in 
itself  it  is,  than  are  those  of  any  other  creative 
artist.  Science  shows  us,  or  aims  to  show  us,  the 
thing  as  it  is ;  but  art  shows  it  to  us  tinged  by  the 
prismatic  rays  of  the  human  spirit.  Criticism  that 
warms  and  interests  is  perpetual  creation,  as  Sainte- 
Beuve  suggested.  It  is  a  constant  combination  of 


96  LITERARY   VALUES 

the  subject  with  the  thought  of  the  critic.  When 
Mr.  James  writes  upon  Sainte-Beuve  we  are  under 
his  spell ;  it  is  Mr.  James  that  ahsorhs  and  delights 
us  now.  We  get  the  truth  about  his  subject,  of 
course,  but  it  is  always  in  combination  with  the 
truth  about  Mr.  James.  The  same  is  true  when 
Macaulay  writes  about  Milton,  and  Carlyle  about 
Burns  or  Johnson,  and  Emerson  about  Montaigne  or 
Plato,  and  Lowell  about  Thoreau  or  Wordsworth,  — 
the  critic  reveals  himself  in  and  through  his  subject. 
We  do  not  demand  that  Arnold  get  the  real  Ar 
nold  out  of  the  way  and  merge  himself  into  general 
humanity  (this  he  cannot  do  in  any  case),  but  only 
that  he  put  aside  the  conscious  exterior  Arnold,  so 
to  speak,  —  Arnold  the  supercilious,  the  contemptu 
ous,  the  hater  of  dissent,  the  teaser  of  the  Philistine. 
The  critic  must  escape  from  the  local  and  accidental. 
We  would  have  Macaulay  cease  to  be  a  Whig, 
Johnson  cease  to  be  a  Tory,  Scherer  forget  his  theo 
logical  training,  and  Brunetiere  escape  from  his 
Catholic  bias. 

v 

No  matter  how  much  truth  the  critic  tells  us,  if 
his  work  does  not  itself  rise  to  the  dignity  of  good 
literature,  if  he  does  not  use  language  in  a  vital  and 
imaginative  way,  we  shall  not  care  for  him.  Liter 
ary  and  artistic  truth  is  not  something  that  can  be 
seized  and  repeated  indifferently  by  this  man  and  by 
that,  like  the  truths  of  science  :  it  must  be  repro 
duced  or  recreated  by  the  critic  ;  it  must  be  as  vital 


CRITICISM   AND   THE   MAN  97 

in  his  page  as  in  that  of  his  author.  The  truths  of 
science  are  static ;  the  truths  of  art  are  dynamic. 
If  a  mediocre  mind  writes  about  Shakespeare,  the 
result  is  mediocre,  no  matter  how  much  bare  truth 
he  tells  us. 

What,  then,  do  we  mean  by  a  great  critic  ?  We 
mean  a  great  mind  that  finds  complete  self-expres 
sion  in  and  through  the  works  of  other  men.  Ar 
nold  found  more  complete  self-expression  through 
literary  criticism  than  through  any  other  channel : 
hence  he  is  greatest  here ;  his  theological  and  reli 
gious  criticism  shows  him  to  less  advantage.  Sainte- 
Beuve  tried  poetry  and  fiction,  but  did  not  find  a 
complete  outlet  for  his  talent  till  he  tried  criti 
cism.  Not  a  profound  or  original  mind,  but  a  won 
derfully  flexible,  tolerant,  sympathetic,  engaging  one ; 
a  climbing  plant,  one  might  say,  that  needed  some 
support  to  display  itself  to  the  best  advantage.  We 
say  of  the  French  mind  generally  that  it  is  more 
truly  a  critical  mind  than  the  English;  it  finds  in 
criticism  a  better  field  for  the  display  of  its  special 
gifts  —  taste,  clearness,  brevity,  flexibility,  judgment 
—  than  does  the  more  original  and  profoundly  emo 
tional  English.  French  criticism  is  rarely  profound, 
but  it  is  always  light,  apt,  graceful,  delicate,  lucid, 
felicitous,  —  clear  sense  and  good  taste  marvelously 
blended. 

Criticism  in  its  scientific  aspects  or  as  a  purely 
intellectual  effort  —  a  search  for  the  exact  truth,  a 
sifting  of  evidence,  weighing  and  comparing  data,  dis 
entangling  testimony,  separating  the  false  from  the 


98  LITERARY  VALUES 

true,  as  with  the  lawyer,  the  doctor,  the  man  of 
science,  the  critic  of  old  texts  and  documents  — 
is  one  thing.  Criticism  of  literature  and  art,  in 
volving  questions  of  taste,  style,  poetic  and  artistic 
values,  is  quite  another,  and  demands  quite  other 
powers.  In  the  former  case  it  is  mainly  judicial, 
dispassionate,  impersonal ;  in  the  latter  case  the 
sympathies  and  special  predilections  are  more  in 
volved.  We  seek  more  or  less  to  interpret  the  im 
aginative  writer,  to  draw  out  and  emphasize  his 
special  quality  and  stimulus,  to  fuse  him  and  restate 
him  in  other  terms  ;  and  in  doing  this  we  give  our 
selves  more  freely.  We  cannot  fully  interpret  what 
we  do  not  love,  and  love  has  eyes  the  judgment 
knows  not  of.  What  a  man  was  born  to  say,  what 
he  speaks  out  of  his  most  radical  selfhood,  —  that 
the  same  fate  and  power  in  you  can  alone  fully 
estimate  and  interpret. 

VI 

One's  search  after  the  truth  in  subjective  matters 
is  more  or  less  a  search  after  one's  self,  after  what 
is  agreeable  to  one's  constitutional  bias  or  innate 
partialities.  We  do  not  see  the  thing  as  it  is  in 
itself  so  much  as  we  see  it  as  it  stands  related  to 
our  individual  fragment  of  existence.  The  lesson 
we  are  slowest  to  learn  and  to  act  upon  is  the  rela 
tivity  of  truth  in  all  these  matters,  or  that  it  is 
what  we  make  it.  It  is  a  product  of  the  mind,  as 
the  apple  is  of  the  tree.  We  get  one  kind  of  truth 
from  Renan,  another  from  Taine,  still  another  from 


CRITICISM   AND   THE   MAN  99 

Ruskin  or  Carlyle  or  Arnold.  The  quality  differs 
according  as  the  minds  or  spirits  differ  whence  the 
truth  proceeds.  Do  we  expect  all  the  apples  in 
the  orchard  to  be  alike  ?  In  general  qualities,  but 
not  in  particular  flavors  ;  and  in  literature  it  is  the 
particular  flavtir  that  is  most  precious.  It  is  the 
quality  imparted  to  the  truth  by  the  conceiving 
mind  that  we  prize. 

It  is  a  long  while  before  we  rise  to  the  perception 
that  opposites  are  true,  that  contrary  types  equally 
serve.  "  One  supreme  does  not  contradict  another 
supreme/'  says  Whitman,  "  any  more  than  one  eye 
sight  contravenes  another  eyesight,  or  one  hearing 
contravenes  another  hearing."  Great  men  have 
been  radical  and  great  men  have  been  conservative  ; 
great  men  have  been  orthodox  and  they  have  been 
heterodox ;  they  have  been  forces  of  expansion  and 
they  have  been  forces  of  contraction.  In  literature, 
it  is  good  to  be  a  realist,  and  it  is  good  to  be  a 
romanticist ;  it  is  good  to  be  a  Dumas,  and  it  is  good 
to  be  a  Zola  ;  it  is  good  to  be  a  Carlyle,  and  it  is 
good  to  be  a  Mazzini,  —  always  provided  that  one  is 
so  from  the  inside  and  not  from  without,  from  origi 
nal  conviction  and  not  from  hearsay  or  conformity. 

A  man  makes  his  way  in  the  world  amid  opposing 
forces ;  he  becomes  something  only  by  overcoming 
something ;  there  is  always  a  struggle  for  survival, 
and  always  merit  in  that  which  survives.  Let  each 
be  perfect  after  its  kind.  We  do  not  object  to  the 
Gothic  type  of  mind  because  it  is  not  the  classic, 
nor  to  the  Englishman  because  he  is  not  the  French- 


100  LITERARY   VALUES 

man.  We  look  for  the  measure  of  nature  or  natural 
force  and  authority  in  these  types.  Nature  is  of  all 
types ;  she  is  of  to-day  as  well  as  of  yesterday ;  she 
is  of  this  century  as  well  as  of  the  first ;  she  was  with 
Burns  as  well  as  with  Pindar.  Because  the  Greek 
was  natural,  shall  we  say  therefore  nature  is  Greek  ? 
She  is  Asiatic,  Icelandic,  Saxon,  Celtic,  American, 
as  well.  She  is  all  things  to  all  men  ;  and  without 
her  nothing  is  that  is. 

VII 

Truth  is  both  subjective  and  objective.  The  for 
mer  is  what  is  agreeable  to  one's  constitution  and 
point  of  view,  or  mental  and  spiritual  make-up. 
Objective  truth  is  verifiable  truth,  or  what  agrees 
with  outward  facts  and  conditions. 

Criticism  deals  with  both  aspects.  It  is  objective 
when  it  is  directed  upon  objective  or  verifiable  facts ; 
it  is  subjective  when  it  is  directed  upon  subjective 
facts.  It  is  an  objective  fact,  for  instance,  that  such 
a  man  as  Shakespeare  lived  in  such  a  country  in 
such  a  time,  that  he  wrote  various  plays  of  such  and 
such  a  character,  and  that  these  plays  were  founded 
upon  other  plays  or  legends  or  histories.  But  the 
poetic  truth,  the  poetic  beauty  of  these  plays,  their 
covert  meanings,  the  philosophy  that  lies  back  of 
them,  are  not  in  the  same  sense  objective  facts.  In 
these  respects  no  two  persons  read  them  just  alike. 
Hamlet  has  been  interpreted  in  many  ways.  Which 
Hamlet  is  the  true  one,  Goethe's,  or  Coleridge's,  or 
Hazlitt's,  or  Kean's,  or  Booth's  ?  Each  is  true,  so 


CRITICISM  AND   THE   MAN  101 

far  as  it  expresses  a  real  and  vital  conception  begot 
ten  by  the  poet  upon  the  critic's  or  the  actor's 
mind.  The  beauty  of  a  poem  or  any  work  of  art 
is  not  an  objective  something  patent  to  all ;  it  is 
an  experience  of  the  mind  which  we  each  have  in 
different  degrees.  In  fact,  the  field  of  our  aesthetic 
perceptions  and  enjoyments  is  no  more  fixed  and 
definite  than  is  the  field  of  our  religious  percep 
tions  and  enjoyments,  and  we  diverge  from  one  an 
other  in  the  one  case  as  much  as  in  the  other.  This 
divergence  is  of  course,  in  both  cases,  mainly  super 
ficial  ;  it  is  in  form  and  not  in  essence.  Keligions 
perish,  but  religion  remains.  Styles  of  art  pass, 
but  art  abides.  Go  deep  enough  and  we  all  agree, 
because  human  nature  is  fundamentally  the  same 
everywhere.  All  that  I  mean  to  say  is  that  the  out 
ward  expressions  of  art  differ  in  different  ages  and 
among  different  races  as  much  as  do  the  outward 
expressions  of  religion.  In  all  these  matters  the  sub 
jective  element  plays  an  important  part.  Is  Brown 
ing  a  greater  poet  than  Tennyson  ?  Is  Thackeray 
a  greater  novelist  than  Dickens  ?  Has  Newman  a 
better  style  than  Arnold  ?  Is  Poe  our  greatest  poet, 
as  many  British  critics  think  ?  These  and  all  sim 
ilar  questions  involve  the  personal  equation  of  the 
critic,  and  his  answer  to  them  will  be  given  more  by 
his  unconscious  than  by  his  conscious  self.  The 
appeal  is  not  so  much  to  his  rational  faculties  as  to 
his  secret  affinities  or  his  aesthetic  perceptions.  You 
can  move  a  man's  reason,  but  you  cannot  by  any 
similar  process  change  his  taste  or  his  faith.  If  we 


102  LITERARY  VALUES 

are  not  by  nature  committed  to  certain  views,  we 
are  committed  to  a  certain  habit  of  mind,  to  a  cer 
tain  moral  and  spiritual  attitude,  which  makes  these 
views  almost  inevitable  to  us.  "  It  is  not  given  to 
all  minds/7  says  Sainte-Beuve,  "  to  feel  and  to  relish 
equally  the  peculiar  beauties  and  excellences  of  Mas- 
sillon,"  or,  it  may  be  added,  of  any  other  author, 
especially  if  he  be  of  marked  individuality. 

We  do  not  and  cannot  all  have  the  same  measure 
of  appreciation  of  Emerson,  or  Wordsworth,  or  Rus- 
kin,  or  Whitman,  or  Browning.  To  enjoy  these  men 
"  sincerely  and  without  weariness  is  a  quality  and 
almost  a  peculiarity  of  certain  minds,  which  may 
serve  to  define  them."  Sainte-Beuve  himself  was 
chiefly  interested  in  an  author's  character,  — "  in 
what  was  most  individual  in  his  personality."  He 
had  no  arbitrary  rules,  touchstones,  or  systems,  but 
pressed  each  new  work  gently,  almost  caressingly, 
till  it  gave  up  its  characteristic  quality  and  flavor. 

But  the  objective  consideration  of  the  merits  of  a 
man's  work  does  not  and  cannot  preclude  or  measure 
the  subjective  attraction  or  repulsion  or  indifference 
which  we  do  or  do  not  feel  toward  that  work. 
Something  deeper  and  more  potent  than  reason  is  at 
work  here.  Back  of  the  most  impartial  literary 
judgment  lies  the  fact  that  the  critic  is  a  person ; 
that  he  is  of  a  certain  race,  family,  temperament, 
environment ;  that  he  is  naturally  cold  or  sympa 
thetic,  liberal  or  reactionary,  tolerant  or  intolerant, 
and  therefore  has  his  individual  likes  and  dislikes ; 
that  certain  types  attract  him  more  than  others ; 


CRITICISM  AND   THE   MAN  103 

that,  of  two  poets  of  equal  power,  the  voice  of  one 
moves  him  more  than  that  of  the  other.  Something 
as  subtle  and  vital  and  hard  to  analyze  as  the  flavor 
of  a  fruit,  and  analogous  to  it,  makes  him  prefer 
this  poet  to  that.  One  may  see  clearly  the  superi 
ority  of  Milton  over  Wordsworth,  and  yet  cleave  to 
the  latter.  How  beautiful  is  "  Lycidas,"  yet  it  left 
Dr.  Johnson  cold  and  critical.  There  is  much  more 
of  a  cry  —  a  real  cry  of  the  heart  —  in  Arnold's 
"  Thyrsis."  One  feels  that  the  passion  is  real  in  one, 
and  assumed  in  the  other.  Is  "  Lycidas  "  therefore 
less  a  creative  work  ?  The  affirmative  side  of  the 
question  is  not  without  support.  Johnson  under 
valued  some  of  Gray's  best  work ;  the  touch  of  sym 
pathy  was  lacking.  This  touch  of  sympathy  does  not 
wait  upon  the  critical  judgment,  but  often  underruns 
and  outruns  it.  It  is  said  that  Miss  Martineau 
found  "Tom  Jones"  dull  reading,  that  Charlotte 
Bronte  cared  not  for  Jane  Austen,  and  that  Thack 
eray  placed  Cooper  above  Scott,  —  all,  no  doubt, 
from  a  lack  of  the  quickening  touch  of  sympathy. 

As  a  rule,  we  have  more  sympathy  with  the  au 
thors  of  our  own  country  than  with  those  of  another. 
Few  Englishmen  can  do  justice  to  Victor  Hugo,  and 
even  to  some  Frenchmen  he  is  a  "  gigantic  blusterer.'7 
It  is  equally  hard  for  a  Frenchman  to  appreciate 
Carlyle,  and  how  absurd  seems  Voltaire's  verdict 
upon  Shakespeare,  —  "  a  drunken  savage  "  ! 

The  French  mind  is  preeminently  a  critical  mind, 
yet  in  France  there  are  and  have  been  as  many  schools 
of  criticism  as  of  poetry  or  philosophy  or  romance. 


104  LITERARY  VALUES 

Different  types  of  mind,  individual  idiosyncrasy,  op 
posing  theories  and  methods,  stand  out  just  as  clearly 
in  this  branch  as  in  any  other  branch  of  mental  ac 
tivity.  From  Madame  de  Stael  down  through  Ba- 
rante,  Villemain,  Nisard,  Sainte-Beuve,  to  Brunetiere 
and  the  critics  of  our  own  day,  criticism  has  been  in 
dividualistic,  and  has  reflected  as  many  types  of  mind 
and  points  of  view  as  there  have  been  critics.  Where 
shall  we  look  for  the  final  criticism  ?  First  it  is 
classicism  that  rules,  then  it  is  romanticism,  then 
naturalism,  and  next,  we  are  told,  it  is  to  be  idealism. 
Whichever  it  is,  it  is  true  enough  when  uttered  by 
vital  and  earnest  minds,  and  serves  its  purpose. 
There  are  many  excellences,  but  where  is  the  supreme 
excellence  ?  The  naturalism  of  Sainte-Beuve  is  ex 
cellent,  the  positivism  of  Nisard  is  excellent,  the 
classicism  of  Brunetiere  is  excellent,  and  the  deter 
minism  of  Taine  yields  interesting  results ;  but  all 
are  relative,  all  are  experimental,  all  are  subject  to 
revision.  It  is  given  to  no  man  to  have  a  mono 
poly  of  truth.  It  is  given  to  no  poet  to  have  a  mo 
nopoly  of  beauty.  There  is  one  beauty  of  Milton, 
another  of  Wordsworth,  another  of  Burns,  another 
of  Tennyson.  To  seize  upon  and  draw  out  the  char 
acteristic  beauty  of  each,  and  give  his  reader  a  lively 
sense  of  it,  is  the  business  of  the  critic. 

VIII 

Our  reading  is  a  search  for  the  excellent,  for  the 
vital  and  characteristic,  which  may  assume  as  many 
and  diverse  forms  in  art  and  literature  as  it  does 


CRITICISM  AND   THE   MAN  105 

in  life  and  nature.  The  savant,  the  scientist,  the 
moralist,  the  philosopher,  may  have  pleasure  in  a 
work  that  gives  little  or  no  pleasure  to  the  literary 
artist.  Criticism  may  be  looked  upon  as  a  search 
for  these  various  values  or  various  phases  of  truth, 
which  the  critic  expresses  in  terms  of  his  own  taste, 
knowledge,  insight,  etc.,  for  scientific  values,  philo 
sophical  values,  literary  and  poetic  values,  or  moral 
and  religious  values,  acccording  to  the  subject  upon 
which  the  critical  mind  is  directed.  No  two  men 
look  for  exactly  the  same  values,  nor  have  the  same 
measure  of  appreciation  of  them.  Emerson  and 
Lowell,  for  instance,  make  quite  different  demands 
and  form  different  estimates  of  the  poets  they  read. 
Lowell  lays  the  emphasis  upon  the  conventional 
literary  values,  Emerson  more  upon  spiritual  and 
religious  values.  An  Englishman  will  find  values 
in  the  poets  of  his  own  country  that  a  Frenchman 
does  not  find,  and  a  Frenchman,  values  in  his  poets 
that  an  Englishman  does  not  find.  See  how  Scherer 
and  Taine  handled  Milton.  Milton's  great  epic  has 
poetic  and  literary  value,  often  of  a  high  order,  but 
as  philosophy  or  religion  it  is  grotesque. 

IX 

Yet  let  me  not  seem  to  underrate  the  value  of 
what  is  called  judicial  criticism.  Criticism  as  an  act 
of  judgment,  as  a  disinterested  endeavor  to  see  the 
thing  as  it  is  in  itself  and  as  it  stands  related  to  other 
things,  is  justly  jealous  of  our  personal  tastes  and 
preferences.  These  tastes  and  preferences  may  blind 


106  LITERARY  VALUES 

us  to  the  truth.  Can  we  admire  above  them,  or 
even  against  them  ?  To  cherish  no  writers  but 
those  of  our  own  stripe  or  mental  complexion  is  the 
way  of  the  half  cultured.  Can  we  rise  to  a  disin 
terested  view  ?  The  danger  of  individualism  in 
letters  is  caprice,  bias,  partial  views ;  the  danger  of 
intellectualism  is  the  cold,  the  colorless,  the  formal. 
The  ideal  critic  will  blend  the  two ;  he  will  be 
disinterested  and  yet  sympathetic,  individual  and  yet 
escape  caprice  and  bias,  warm  with  interest  and  yet 
cool  with  judgment ;  surrendering  himself  to  his 
subject  and  yet  not  losing  himself  in  it,  upholding 
tradition  and  yet  welcoming  new  talent,  giving  the 
personal  equation  free  play  without  blurring  the 
light  of  the  impersonal  intelligence.  From  the  point 
of  view  of  intellectualism,  criticism  seeks  to  elimi 
nate  the  personal  equation,  that  which  is  private  and 
peculiar  to  us  as  individuals,  and  to  base  criticism 
upon  something  like  universal  principles.  What  we 
crave,  what  our  minds  literally  feed  upon,  may  blind 
us  to  the  truly  excellent.  Our  wants  are  personal ; 
what  we  should  aim  at  is  an  excellence  that  is  imper 
sonal.  When  we  rise  to  the  sphere  of  the  disinter 
ested,  we  lose  sight  of  our  individual  tastes  and  pre 
dilections.  The  question  then  is,  not  what  we  want, 
not  what  we  have  a  taste  for,  but  what  we  are  ca 
pable  of  appreciating.  Can  we  appreciate  the  best  ? 
Can  we  share  the  universal  mind  to  the  extent  of 
delighting  in  the  best  that  has  been  known  and 
thought  in  the  world  ?  Emerson  said  he  was  always 
glad  to  meet  people  who  saw  the  superiority  of  Shake- 


CRITICISM  AND   THE   MAN  107 

speare  to  all  other  poets.  If  we  prefer  Pope  to  Shake 
speare,  as  we  are  apt  to  at  a  certain  age,  we  may  know 
by  that  that  there  is  an  excellence  beyond  our  reach. 
It  is  certain  that  the  mass  of  readers  will  not  appre 
ciate  the  best  literature,  but  only  the  second  or  third 
best.  A  man's  aesthetic  perceptions  may  be  broadened 
and  educated  as  well  as  his  intellectual.  An  unread 
man  feels  little  interest  beyond  his  own  neighbor 
hood,  —  the  personal  doings  of  the  men  and  women  he 
sees  and  knows.  Educate  him  a  little,  give  him  his 
county  paper,  and  the  sphere  of  his  interests  is  wid 
ened  ;  a  little  more,  and  he  takes  an  interest  in  his 
State ;  more  still,  and  he  broadens  out  to  his  whole 
country  ;  still  more,  and  the  whole  world  is  within 
his  sympathy  and  ken.  So  in  the  aesthetic  sphere  ; 
he  gets  beyond  his  personal  tastes  and  wants  into  the 
great  world  currents  of  literature  and  art.  He  can 
appreciate  works  written  in  other  ages  and  lands,  and 
that  are  quite  foreign  to  his  own  temperament  and 
outlook.  This  is  to  be  disinterested.  To  emanci 
pate  the  taste  is  as  much  as  to  emancipate  the  intel 
lect  ;  to  rise  above  one's  personal  affinities  is  as  much 
as  to  rise  above  one's  personal  prejudices  and  supersti 
tions.  The  boy  of  a  certain  stamp  has  an  affinity  for 
the  dime  novel ;  if  we  can  lift  him  to  an  apprecia 
tion  of  Scott,  or  Thackeray,  or  Hawthorne,  how  have 
we  emancipated  his  taste !  So  that  Brunetiere  was 
right  in  saying  that,  in  art  and  literature,  the  begin 
ning  of  wisdom  is  to  distrust  what  we  like.  Distrust, 
not  repudiate.  Let  us  examine  first  and  see  upon 
what  grounds  we  like  it,  —  see  if  we  ought  to  like 


108  LITERARY  VALUES 

it ;  see  if  it  is  akin  to  that  which  is  of  permanent 
value  in  the  world's  best  thought.  A  French  critic 
tells  a  story  of  a  man  who  sat  cool  and  unmoved 
under  a  sermon  that  made  the  people  about  him 
shed  torrents  of  tears,  and  who  excused  himself  by 
saying,  "  I  do  not  belong  to  this  parish."  One's 
tastes  must  be  broader  than  one's  parish.  I  suppose 
any  of  our  religious  brethren  would  feel  a  little  shy 
of  weeping  in  the  church  of  a  religious  denomination 
not  his  own.  Our  religion  is  no  more  emancipated 
than  are  our  tastes.  Lowell  says  there  are  born 
Popists  and  born  Wordsworthians ;  but  the  more 
these  types  can  get  out  of  their  limitations  and  ap 
preciate  one  another,  the  more  they  are  emancipated. 


RECENT   PHASES   OF  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


rilHE  criticism  of  criticism  is  one  of  the  marked 
-*-  literary  characteristics  of  the  last  ten  or  fifteen 
years,  both  in  this  country  and  in  Europe.  It  is 
seen  in  France  in  Brunetiere's  essays  and  in  Hen- 
nequin's  "  Scientific  Criticism  ;  "  in  England  in  the 
recent  work  of  W.  Basil  Worsfold  on  the  "  Princi 
ples  of  Criticism  "  and  in  Mr.  John  M.  Kobertson's 
two  volumes  of  "  Essays  toward  a  Critical  Method ; " 
in  this  country  in  Mr.  Howells's  "  Criticism  and 
Fiction/'  in  Prof.  Johnson's  "Elements  of  Criti 
cism  "  and  in  the  still  more  recent  work  of  Professor 
Sears  on  "  Methods  and  Principles  of  Criticism," 
besides  the  numerous  discussions  of  the  subject  in 
the  magazines  and  literary  journals. 

A  Western  college  professor  lately  discussed  some 
phases  of  the  subject  under  the  head  of  "  Demo 
cratic  Criticism ; "  whereupon  other  college  profes 
sors  raised  the  voice  of  protest,  one  of  them  asking 
ironically,  Why  not  have  a  democratic  botany  and 
zoology  and  geology  and  astronomy  ?  I  think  it 
may  be  said  in  reply  that,  so  far  as  democracy  is 
based  upon  natural  law  and  means  free  inquiry,  a  fair 


110  LITERARY  VALUES 

field  and  no  favor,  we  have  these  things  already. 
All  science  is  democratic,  in  the  sense  that  it  is  no 
respecter  of  persons,  has  no  partialities,  stops  at  no 
arbitrary  boundaries,  and  places  all  things  on  an 
equal  footing  before  natural  law.  Surely  the  spirit 
of  science  makes  directly  for  democracy.  When 
science  shows  us  that  the  universe  is  all  made  of 
one  stuff,  that  the  celestial  laws,  as  Whitman  said, 
do  not  need  to  be  worked  over  and  rectified,  that 
inherent  power  and  worth  alone  finally  tell,  and 
that  there  is  not  one  rule  for  the  heavens  above  and 
another  for  the  earth  below,it  is  making  smooth  the 
way  for  democratic  ideas  and  ideals. 

Still,  pure  science  is  outside  the  domain  of  litera 
ture,  and  does  not  reflect  a  people's  life  and  character 
as  literature  does.  It  does  not  hold  the  mirror  of 
man's  imagination  up  to  nature,  but  resolves  nature 
in  the  alembic  of  his  understanding.  It  is  not  an 
exponent  of  personality,  as  art  is,  but  an  index  of 
the  development  and  progress  of  the  impersonal 
reason.  But  when  we  enter  the  region  of  the  senti 
ments  and  the  emotions  —  the  subjective  world  of 
criticism,  literature,  art  —  the  case  is  different.  Here 
we  find  reflected  social  and  arbitrary  distinctions  ; 
here  we  find  mirrored  the  spirit  and  temper  of  men 
as  they  are  acted  upon  and  modified  by  the  social 
organism  and  the  ideals  of  different  times  and  races. 
A  democratic  community  will  have  standards  of 
excellence  in  art  and  criticism  differing  from  those 
of  an  aristocratic  community,  and  will  be  drawn  by 
different  qualities.  It  seems  to  me  that  Dr.  Triggs 


KECENT   PHASES   OF   LITERARY    CRITICISM      111 

was  quite  right  in  saying  that  a  criticism  that  esti 
mates  literary  products  according  to  absolute  stand 
ards,  that  clings  to  the  past,  that  cultivates  the 
academic  spirit,  that  is  exclusive  and  unsympathetic, 
may  justly  be  called  aristocratic  ;  and  that  a  crit 
icism  that  follows  more  the  comparative  method, 
that  adheres  to  principles  instead  of  to  standards, 
and  lays  the  stress  upon  the  vital  and  the  character 
istic  in  a  man's  work,  rather  than  upon  its  form 
and  extrinsic  beauty,  is  essentially  democratic. 

No  doubt  the  ideal  of  the  monumental  works 
of  antiquity  is  essentially  anti-democratic.  It  was 
fostered  by  an  exclusive  culture.  It  goes  with  the 
idea  of  the  divine  right  of  kings,  of  a  privileged 
class,  and  is  at  war  with  the  spirit  of  our  times. 
The  Catholic  tradition  in  religion  and  the  classical 
tradition  in  literature  are  as  foreign  to  the  spirit  of 
democracy  as  is  the  monarchical  tradition  in  poli 
tics.  They  are  all  branches  from  the  same  root. 
The  classical  tradition  begat  Milton,  but  it  did  not 
beget  Shakespeare,  the  most  marvelous  genius  of  the 
modern  world.  To  the  classic  tradition,  as  it  spoke 
through  Voltaire,  Shakespeare  was  a  barbarian.  In 
deed,  Shakespeare's  art  was  essentially  democratic, 
how  much  soever  it  may  have  occupied  itself  with 
royal  and  aristocratic  personages.  It  is  as  free  as  an 
uncaged  bird,  and  pays  no  tribute  to  classic  models. 
Its  aim  is  inward  movement,  fusion,  and  vitality, 
rather  than  outward  harmony  and  proportion.  A 
Greek  play  is  like  a  Greek  temple,  —  chaste,  severe, 
symmetrical,  beautiful.  A  play  of  Shakespeare  is,  as 


112  LITERARY   VALUES 

Dr.  Johnson  long  ago  suggested,  more  like  a  wood 
or  a  piece  of  free  nature. 

ii 

Democratic  and  aristocratic  may  not  be  the  best 
terms  to  apply  to  the  two  opposing  types  of  critics, 
—  men  like  Matthew  Arnold  or  the  French  critic 
Ferdinand  Brunetiere,  on  the  one  hand,  both  the 
spokesmen  of  authority  in  letters  ;  and  men  like 
Sainte-Beuve  and  Anatole  France,  and  the  younger 
generation  of  English  and  American  critics  on  the 
other,  men  who  are  more  tolerant  of  individual 
differences  and  more  inclined  to  seek  the  reason  of 
each  work  within  itself.  Yet  these  terms  indicate 
fairly  well  two  profoundly  different  types. 

Brunetiere  is  a  militant  and  dogmatic  critic,  as  we 
saw  by  his  severe  denunciation  of  Zola  while  lectur 
ing  in  this  country  a  few  years  since.  One  of  his 
eulogists  speaks  of  him  as  the  "  autocrat  of  trium 
phant  convictions."  Of  democratic  blood  in  his 
veins  there  is  very  little.  He  reflects  the  old  ortho 
dox  and  aristocratic  spirit  in  his  dictum  that  nature 
is  not  to  be  trusted ;  that  both  in  taste  and  in  morals 
what  comes  natural  to  us  and  gives  us  pleasure  is,  for 
that  very  reason,  to  be  avoided.  Nature  is  depraved. 
In  morals,  would  we  attain  to  virtue,  we  must  go 
counter  to  her ;  and  in  art  and  literature,  would  we 
attain  to  wisdom,  we  must  distrust  what  we  like. 
This  suspicion  of  nature  was  the  keynote  of  the 
old  theology,  which  found  its  authority  in  a  mirac 
ulous  revelation,  and  it  is  the  keynote  of  the  old 


RECENT   PHASES   OF  LITERARY  CRITICISM      113 

Aristotelian  criticism,  which  found  its  authority  in  a 
body  of  rules  deduced  from  the  masters.  The  new 
theology  looks  for  a  scientific  basis  for  its  morals,  or 
seeks  for  the  sanction  of  nature  herself  ;  and  demo 
cratic  criticism  aims  to  stand  upon  the  same  basis, 
and  cleaves  to  principles  and  not  to  standards,  not 
by  yielding  to  the  caprices  of  uninformed  taste,  but 
by  seeking  the  law  and  test  of  every  work  within 
itself.  We  no  longer  judge  of  the  worth  of  a  man  by 
his  creed,  but  by  what  he  is  in  and  of  himself ;  by  his 
natural  virtues  and  aptitudes  ;  and  we  no  longer  con 
demn  a  work  of  art  because  it  breaks  with  the  old 
traditions. 

Arnold  was  of  similar  temper  with  Brunetiere. 
His  elements  of  style  are  "  dignity  and  distinction," 
a  part  of  the  classic  tradition,  a  survival  from  the 
feudal  and  aristocratic  world,  from  a  literature  of 
courts  and  courtiers,  as  distinguished  from  a  litera 
ture  of  the  people,  a  democratic  literature.  Distinc 
tion  of  utterance,  distinction  of  manners,  distinction 
of  dress  and  equipage  —  they  are  all  of  a  piece,  and 
adhere  in  the  aristocratic  and  monarchical  ideal. 
The  special  antipathy  of  this  ideal  is  the  common ; 
all  commonness  is  vulgar.  When  Arnold  came  to 
this  country  and  became  interested  in  the  lives  of 
Grant  and  Lincoln,  he  found  them  both  wanting  in 
distinction,  —  there  was  no  savor  of  the  aristocratic 
in  their  words  or  manners.  And  the  criticism  is 
true.  From  all  accounts,  Grant  presented  a  far  less 
distinguished  appearance  at  Appomattox  than  did 
Lee  ;  and  Lincoln  was  easily  outshone  in  aristocratic 


114  LITERARY   VALUES 

graces  by  some  members  of  his  cabinet.  Indeed, 
the  predominant  quality  of  the  two  men  was  their 
immense  commonness.  Washington  and  Jefferson 
came  much  nearer  the  aristocratic  ideal.  Lincoln 
and  Grant  both  had  greatness  of  the  first  order,  but 
their  type  was  democratic  and  not  aristocratic.  The 
aristocratic  ideal  of  excellence  embraces  other  quali 
ties  ;  there  is  more  pride,  more  exclusiveness  in  it ; 
it  holds  more  by  traditions  and  special  privileges. 
Lincoln  had  less  distinction  than  Sumner  or  Chase, 
Grant  less  than  Sherman  or  Lee,  but  each  had  an 
excellence  the  others  had  not.  The  choice,  the  re 
fined,  the  cultured,  belong  to  one  class  of  excel 
lencies  :  the  qualities  of  Lincoln  and  Grant  belong 
to  another  and  more  fundamental  kind.  Arnold 
himself  had  distinction,  —  he  had  urbanity,  lucid 
ity,  proportion,  and  many  other  classic  virtues, — 
but  he  had  not  breadth,  sympathy,  heartiness,  com 
monness.  The  quality  of  distinction,  an  air  of 
something  choice,  high-bred,  superfine,  will  doubt 
less  count  for  less  and  less  in  a  country  like  ours. 
In  literature  and  in  character  we  are  looking  for 
other  values,  for  the  true,  the  vital,  the  characteris 
tic.  There  is  nothing  in  life  or  character  more  win 
some  than  commonness  wedded  to  great  excellence ; 
the  ordinary  crowned  with  the  extraordinary,  as  in 
Lincoln  the  man,  Socrates  the  philosopher,  Burns 
or  Wordsworth  the  poet.  Distinction  wins  admi 
ration,  commonness  wins  love.  The  note  of  equal 
ity,  the  democratic  note,  is  much  more  pronounced 
in  Browning  than  in  Tennyson,  in  Shelley  than  in 


RECENT   PHASES   OF  LITERARY   CRITICISM      115 

Arnold,  in  Wordsworth  than  in  Milton,  and  it  is 
more  pronounced  in  American  poets  than  in  English. 
In  times  and  for  a  people  like  ours,  the  suggestion 
of  something  hearty  and  heroic  in  letters  is  more 
needed  than  the  suggestion  of  something  fine  and 
exquisite.  Distinction  is  not  to  be  confounded  with 
dignity  or  elevation,  which  nourishes  more  or  less  in 
all  great  peoples.  A  common  laboring  man  may 
show  great  dignity,  but  never  distinction.  Dignity 
often  shone  in  the  speeches  of  the  old  Indian  chiefs, 
but  not  distinction,  as  the  term  is  here  used. 

The  more  points  at  which  a  man  touches  his  fel 
low  man,  the  more  democratic  he  is.  The  breadth 
of  his  relation  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  that  is  the 
test.  Sainte-Beuve  was  more  truly  a  democratic 
critic  than  is  Brunetiere.  The  democratic  pro 
ducer  in  literature  will  differ  from  the  aristocratic 
less  in  his  standards  of  excellence  than  in  the  at 
mosphere  of  human  equality  and  commonness  which 
he  effuses.  We  are  too  apt  to  associate  the  common 
with  the  vulgar.  There  is  the  commonness  of  a 
Lincoln  or  a  Grant,  and  there  is  the  commonness  of 
the  lower  strata  of  society.  There  is  the  common 
ness  of  earth,  air,  and  water,  and  there  is  the  com 
monness  of  dust  and  mud ;  the  commonness  of  the 
basic  and  the  universal,  and  the  commonness  of  the 
cheap  and  tawdry.  Grant's  calmness,  self-control, 
tenacity  of  purpose,  modesty,  comprehensiveness  of 
mind,  were  uncommon  in  degree,  not  in  kind.  He 
was  the  common  soldier  with  extraordinary  powers 
added,  but  the  common  soldier  was  always  visible. 


116  LITERARY  VALUES 

So  with  Lincoln,  —  his  greatness  was  inclusive,  not 
exclusive. 

in 

So  far  as  good  taste  means  "  good  form,"  and  so 
far  as  good  form  is  established  by  social  and  conven 
tional  usages  of  the  fashionable  world,  the  poet  of 
democracy  has  little  to  do  with  it.  But  so  far  as  it 
is  based  upon  the  inherent  fitness  of  things  and' 
the  health  and  development  of  the  best  there  is  in 
a  man,  so  far  is  he  bound  to  enlist  himself  in  its 
service.  In  a  world  where  everybody  is  educated 
and  reads  books,  much  poor  literature  will  circulate ; 
but  will  not  the  good,  the  best,  circulate  also  ?  Will 
there  not  be  the  few  good  judges,  the  saving  rem 
nant  ?  Is  there  not  as  much  good  taste  and  right 
reason  now  in  England  or  France  as  during  more 
rigidly  monarchical  times  ? 

The  ideal  democracy  is  not  the  triumph  of  bar 
barism  or  the  riot  of  vulgarity,  but  it  is  the  triumph 
of  right  reason  and  natural  equality  and  inequality. 
Some  things  are  better  than  others,  better  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  whole  of  life.  These  better 
things  we  must  cling  to  and  make  much  of  in  a  demo 
cracy,  as  in  an  aristocracy.  We  must  aspire  to  the 
best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  world.  This 
best  a  privileged  class  seeks  to  appropriate  to  itself ; 
a  democracy  seeks  to  share  it  with  all.  All  are  not 
capable  of  receiving  it,  but  all  may  try.  They  will 
be  better  able  to-morrow  if  they  have  the  chance 
to-day.  We  must  not  ignore  the  vulgarity,  the  bad 
taste  incident  to  democratic  conditions.  If  we  do, 


RECENT   PHASES   OF   LITERARY   CRITICISM      117 

we  never  get  rid  of  them.  Political  equality  brings 
to  the  foreground  many  unhandsome  human  traits, 
the  loud,  the  mediocre,  the  insolent,  etc.  All  the 
more  must  we  fix  attention  upon  the  true,  the  noble, 
the  heroic,  the  disinterested.  The  rule  of  temper 
ance,  of  good  taste,  of  right  reason,  antedates  any 
and  every  social  condition.  Democracy  cannot  ab 
rogate  fundamental  principles.  The  essential  condi 
tions  of  life  are  not  changed,  but  arbitrary,  accidental 
conditions  are  modified.  One  still  needs  food  and 
raiment  and  shelter  and  transportation ;  he  is  still 
subject  to  the  old  hindrances  and  discouragements 
within  himself. 

We  must  give  the  terms  good  taste,  right  reason 
a  broader  scope ;  that  is  all.  The  principles  of  good 
taste  when  applied  to  art  are  not  fixed  and  absolute, 
like  those  of  mathematics  or  the  exact  sciences. 
They  are  vital  and  elastic.  They  imply  a  certain 
fitness  and  consistency.  Shakespeare  shocked  the 
classic  taste  of  the  French  critics.  He  violated  the 
unities  and  mixed  prose  and  poetry.  But  what  was 
good  taste  in  Shakespeare  —  that  is,  in  keeping  with 
his  spirit  and  aim  —  might  be  bad  taste  in  Eacine. 
What  is  permissible  to  an  elemental  poet  like  Whit 
man  would  jar  in  a  refined  poet  like  Longfellow. 
But  bad  taste  in  Whitman,  that  is,  things  not  in 
keeping  with  the  ideal  he  has  before  him,  jar  the 
same  as  in  any  other  poet.  He  has  many  lines  and 
passages  and  whole  poems  that  set  the  teeth  of  many 
readers  on  edge,  that  are  yet  in  perfect  keeping  with 
his  plan  and  spirit.  They  go  with  the  poet  of  the 


118  LITERARY   VALUES 

Cosmos,  but  not  with  the  poet  of  the  drawing-room 
or  library.  My  taste  is  not  shocked,  but  my  cour 
age  is  challenged. 

In  Whitman's  case  the  appeal  is  not  so  directly 
and  exclusively  to  our  aesthetic  perceptions  as  it  is 
in  most  other  poets ;  he  is  elemental  where  they 
are  cultured  and  artificial ;  at  the  same  time  he  can 
no  more  escape  aesthetic  principles  than  they  can. 
Because  a  flower,  a  gem,  a  well-kept  lawn,  etc.,  are 
beautiful,  we  are  not  compelled  to  deny  beauty  to 
rocks,  trees,  and  mountains.  If  Whitman  does  not, 
in  his  total  effects,  attain  to  something  like  this  kind 
of  beauty,  he  is  not  a  poet. 

IV 

I  have  said  that  Sainte-Beuve  was  more  truly  a 
democratic  critic  than  is  M.  Brunetiere.  He  is  more 
tolerant  of  individualism  in  letters.  He  called  him 
self  a  naturalist  of  minds.  His  main  interest  in 
each  work  was  in  what  was  most  individual  and 
characteristic  in  it.  He  was  inclusive  rather  than 
exclusive,  less  given  to  positive  judgments,  but  more 
to  sympathetic  interpretation.  He  united  the  method 
of  Darwin  to  the  sensibility  of  the  artist.  Critics 
like  Arnold  and  Brunetiere  uphold  the  classic  and 
academic  traditions.  They  are  aristocratic  because 
they  are  the  spokesmen  of  an  exclusive  culture. 
They  derive  from  Catholicism  more  than  from  Pro 
testantism  ;  they  uphold  authority  rather  than  en 
courage  individuality  in  life  and  letters.  In  criti 
cism  they  aim  at  that  intellectual  disinterestedness 


EECENT  PHASES  OF  LITERARY   CRITICISM      119 

which  is  indeed  admirable,  and  which  has  given  the 
world  such  noble  results,  but  which  seems  unsuited 
to  the  genius  of  our  time.  Ours  is  a  democratic 
century,  a  Protestant  century.  Individualism  has 
been  the  dominant  note  in  literature.  The  men  of 
power,  for  the  most  part,  have  not  been  the  disin 
terested,  but  the  interested  men,  the  men  of  convic 
tion  and  of  more  or  less  partial  views,  who  have 
not  so  much  aimed  to  see  the  thing  as  it  is  in  itself 
as  they  have  aimed  to  make  others  see  it  as  they 
saw  it.  In  other  words,  they  have  been  preachers, 
doctrinaires,  men  bent  upon  the  dissemination  of 
particular  ideas. 

One  has  only  to  run  over  the  list  of  the  foremost 
names  in  literature  for  the  past  seventy-five  years. 
There  is  Tolstoi,  in  Russia,  clearly  one  of  the  great 
world  writers,  but  a  doctrinaire  through  and  through. 
There  are  Eenan,  Victor  Hugo,  Taine,  Thiers, 
Guizot,  in  France  ;  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Carlyle, 
Buskin,  Newman,  Huxley,  George  Eliot,  Mrs.  Ward, 
in  English  literature,  and  in  American  literature 
Emerson,  Whitman,  and  Thoreau.  All  these  writers 
had  aims  ulterior  to  those  of  pure  literature.  They 
were  not  disinterested  observers  and  recorders. 
They  obtruded  their  personal  opinions  and  convic 
tions.  They  are  the  writers  with  a  message.  Their 
thoughts  spring  from  some  special  bent  or  experience, 
and  address  themselves  to  some  special  mood  or  want. 
They  wrote  the  books  that  help  us,  that  often  come 
to  us  as  revelations ;  works  of  art,  it  may  be,  but 
of  art  in  subjection  to  moral  conviction,  and  they 


120  LITERARY   VALUES 

are  directed  to  other  than  purely  aesthetic  ends. 
They  gave  expression  to  their  individual  tastes  and 
predilections;  they  were  more  or  less  tethered  to 
their  own  egos;  they  may  be  called  the  personal 
authors,  as  their  predecessors  may  be  called  the  im 
personal.  They  are  not  of  the  pure  breed  of  men 
of  letters,  but  represent  crosses  of  various  kinds,  as 
the  cross  of  the  artist  with  the  thinker,  the  savant, 
the  theologian,  the  man  of  science,  the  reformer,  the 
preacher.  These  personal  authors  belong  to  the 
modern  world  rather  than  to  the  ancient ;  to  a  time 
of  individualism  rather  than  to  a  time  of  institution- 
alism ;  to  an  industrial  and  democratic  age,  rather 
than  to  an  imperial  and  military  age. 

Modern  life  is  undoubtedly  becoming  more  and 
more  impersonal  in  the  sense  that  it  favors  less  and 
less  the  growth  and  preservation  of  great  personali 
ties,  yet  its  utilitarian  spirit,  its  tendency  to  speciali 
zation,  its  right  of  private  judgment,  and  its  religious 
doubts  and  unrest,  find  their  outcome  in  individ 
ualism  in  literature.  The  disinterested  critics  and 
recorders  are  still  among  us,  but  power  has  departed 
from  them.  The  age  is  too  serious,  the  questions 
are  too  pressing.  The  man  of  genius  is  no  longer 
at  ease  in  Zion.  If  he  rises  at  all  above  the  masses, 
he  must  share  the  burden  of  thought  and  conscience 
of  his  times.  This  burden  may  hinder  the  free  artis 
tic  play  of  his  powers,  as  it  probably  has  in  most 
of  the  writers  I  have  mentioned,  yet  it  will  greatly 
deepen  the  impression  his  words  will  make.  The 
saying  "  Art  for  art's  sake  "  cannot  be  impeached, 


RECENT  PHASES   OF  LITERARY  CRITICISM      121 

even  by  Tolstoi.  When  rightly  understood,  it  is 
true.  Art  would  live  in  the  whole,  and  not  in  the 
part  called  morals  or  religion,  or  even  beauty.  But 
its  exponents  in  our  day  have  been,  with  few  excep 
tions,  of  a  feeble  type,  men  of  words  and  fancies  like 
Swinburne  or  Poe.  In  Tennyson  we  have  as  pure  a 
specimen  of  artistic  genius  as  in  Shakespeare,  but 
a  far  less  potent  one.  His  power  comes  when  he 
thrills  and  vibrates  with  some  special  thought  or 
cry  of  his  time.  With  the  great  swarms  of  our 
minor  poets  the  complaint  is,  not  that  the  type  is 
not  pure,  but  that  the  inspiration  is  feeble.  They 
have  more  art  than  nature.  It  is  the  same  with 
the  novelists.  Since  Hawthorne  and  Thackeray  the 
pure  artistic  gift  has  no  longer  been  the  endowment 
of  great  or  profound  personalities.  George  Eliot, 
Mrs.  Ward,  Tolstoi,  all  interested  writers,  all  with 
aims  foreign  to  pure  art,  are  the  names  of  power  in 
our  half  of  the  century.  Henry  James  is  a  much 
finer  artist,  but  he  has  nothing  like  their  hold  upon 
the  great  common  elements  of  human  life.  The 
disinterested  writer  gives  us  a  higher,  more  unselfish 
pleasure  than  the  type  I  am  considering;  we  are 
compelled  to  rise  more  completely  out  of  ourselves 
to  meet  him.  I  am  only  insisting  that  in  our  day 
he  has  little  penetration,  and  that  the  men  of  power 
have  been  of  the  other  class. 

I  have  placed  Taine  among  the  interested  critics ; 
he  was  interested  in  putting  through  certain  ideas ; 
he  had  a  thesis  to  uphold  ;  he  will  not  value  all 
truths  equally,  he  will  take  what  suits  him.  Like 


122  LITERARY  VALUES 

all  men  with  preconceived  ideas,  his  mind  was  more 
like  a  searchlight  than  like  a  lamp.  This  makes  him 
stimulating  as  a  critic,  but  not  always  satisfying. 

The  same  is  true  of  our  own  Emerson,  prohably 
our  most  stimulating  and  fertilizing  mind  thus  far. 
Lowell,  as  a  man  of  letters,  is  of  a  much  purer  strain ; 
he  is  in  the  direct  line  of  succession  of  the  great 
literary  names,  yet  the  value  of  his  contribution 
undoubtedly  falls  far  short  of  that  of  Emerson.  As 
a  poet,  Emerson  was  a  poor  singer  with  wonderfully 
penetrating  tones,  almost  unequaled  in  this  respect. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  him  as  a  critic ;  he  was  a 
poor  critic  with  a  wonderfully  penetrating  glance. 
He  had  the  hawk's  eye  for  the  game  he  was  looking 
for ;  he  could  see  it  amid  any  tangle  of  woods  or 
thicket  of  the  commonplace.  His  special  limitation 
is  that  he  was  looking  for  a  particular  kind  of  prey. 
His  sympathies  were  narrow  but  intense.  The  elec 
tive  affinities  were  very  active  in  his  criticism.  He 
loved  Emersonian  poetry,  he  loved  the  Emersonian 
paradoxes,  he  valued  the  wild  aeolian  tones ;  he  de 
lighted  in  the  word  that  gave  the  prick  and  sting  of 
the  electric  spark ;  abruptness,  surprise,  the  sudden, 
intense,  forked  sentence  —  these  took  him,  these  he 
dealt  in.  His  survey  of  any  man  or  matter  is  never 
a  complete  one,  never  a  disinterested  one,  never  done 
in  the  scientific  spirit.  He  writes  about  representa 
tive  men,  and  exploits  Plato,  Goethe,  Montaigne,  etc., 
in  relation  to  his  thought.  He  is  always  on  quests 
for  particular  ideas,  in  search  for  Emersonian  values. 
He  will  not  do  justice  to  such  poets  as  Poe  and 


RECENT   PHASES   OF   LITEEARY  CRITICISM      123 

Shelley,  but  he  will  do  more  than  justice  to  Donne 
and  Herbert  *,  he  finds  in  them  what  he  sets  out  to 
find ;  it  is  a  partial  view,  but  it  is  penetrating  and 
valuable;  it  is  not  criticism,  and  does  not  set  out 
to  be  ;  it  is  a  suggestive  study  of  kindred  souls. 
Emerson's  work  is  kindling  and  inspiring ;  it  un 
settles  rather  than  settles ;  it  is  not  a  lamp  to  guide 
your  feet,  it  is  a  star  to  give  you  your  bearings. 
Carlyle  and  Ruskin  fall  into  the  same  category. 
They  sin  against  the  classic  virtues  of  repose,  pro 
portion,  serenity,  but  this  makes  their  penetrating 
power  all  the  greater.  Carlyle  cannot  rank  with  the 
great  impartial  historians,  yet  as  a  painter  of  histori 
cal  characters  and  scenes  the  vividness  and  reality 
of  his  pictures  are  almost  unequaled.  Carlyle 
lacked  the  disinterestedness  of  the  true  artist.  'He 
had  great  power  of  description  and  characterization, 
but  he  could  not  as  an  historian  stand  apart  from  his 
subject  as  the  great  Greek  and  Koman  historians  do. 
He  is  a  portion  of  all  that  he  sees  and  describes. 
He  is  bent  upon  persuasion  quite  as  much  as  upon 
portrayal.  He  could  not  succeed  as  a  novelist  or  a 
poet,  because  of  his  vehement,  intolerant  nature.  He 
succeeds  as  an  historian  only  in  portraying  men  in 
whom  he  sees  the  lineaments  of  his  own  character, 
as  in  Cromwell.  He  did  not  or  could  not  live  in  the 
whole,  as  did  his  master,  Goethe.  His  mind  was 
a  steep  incline.  His  opinions  were  like  mountain 
torrents,  Arnold,  in  one  of  his  letters,  complained 
that  in  his  criticism  of  Goethe  there  was  too  much 
of  engouement)  —  too  much,  I  suppose,  of  the  fond- 


124  LITERARY  VALUES 

ness  of  the  gourmand  for  a  particular  dish,  or  of  the 
toper  for  his  favorite  tipple.  His  enthusiasm  was 
intemperate,  and  therefore  unsound.  Doubtless 
some  such  objection  as  this  may  be  urged  against 
most  of  Carlyle's  criticisms.  He  was  ruled  by  his 
character  more  than  by  his  intellect ;  his  feeling 
guided  his  vision.  If  he  is  not  always  a  light  to  the 
reason,  he  is  certainly  an  electric  excitant  to  the 
imagination  and  the  moral  sense.  In  his  essays, 
pamphlets,  histories,  we  hardly  get  judicial  estimates 
of  things ;  rather  do  we  get  overestimates  or  un 
der  estimates.  Yet  always  is  there  something  that 
kindles  and  brings  the  blood  to  the  surface.  Car- 
lyle  will  beget  a  stronger  race  than  Arnold,  but  it 
will  not  be  so  cool  and  clear-headed.  Emerson  will 
fertilize  more  minds  with  new  thought  than  Lowell, 
but  there  will  be  many  more  cranks  and  fanatics 
and  hobbyists  among  them. 

Professor  Dowden  says  Landor  falls  below  Shelley 
and  Wordsworth  because  he  had  no  divine  message 
or  oracle  to  deliver  to  the  men  of  his  generation,  — 
no  authentic  word  of  the  Lord  to  utter.  Landor  had 
great  thoughts,  but  they  were  not  of  first-rate  impor 
tance  with  reference  to  his  times.  He  was  more 
thoroughly  imbued  with  the  classic  spirit  than  either 
Shelley  or  Wordsworth,  and  the  classic  spirit  is  at 
ease  in  Zion.  The  modern  world  differs  from  the 
ancient  in  its  moral  stress  and  fervor.  This  moral 
stress  and  fervor  both  Shelley  and  Wordsworth 
shared,  but  Land  or  did  not.  Where  would  the 
world  be  in  thought,  in  works,  in  civilization,  had 


RECENT   PHASES   OF  LITERARY  CRITICISM      125 

there  been  no  one-sided,  overloaded,  fanatical  men, 
—  men  of  partial  views,  of  half-truths,  of  one  idea  ? 
Where  would  Christianity  have  been,  under  the  play 
of  disinterested  intellect,  without  disciples,  without 
devotees,  without  saints  and  martyrs,  without  its 
Paul  and  its  Luther,  without  prejudice,  without 
superstition,  without  inflexibility  ? 

We  might  fitly  contrast  these  two  types  of  mind 
under  the  heads  of  Protestant  and  Catholic,  the  one 
personal,  the  other  impersonal.  With  the  Protest 
ant  type  goes  individualism,  which,  as  I  have  said, 
is  so  marked  a  feature  of  the  modern  world.  With 
the  Catholic  type  goes  institutionalism,  which  was 
so  marked  a  feature  of  the  ancient  world.  With 
the  former  goes  the  right  of  private  judgment,  inno 
vation,  progress,  new  forms  of  art ;  with  the  latter 
goes  authority,  obedience,  the  power  of  the  past. 
The  Protestant  type  is  more  capricious  and  willful ; 
it  is  restless,  venturesome,  impatient  of  rules  and 
precedents ;  the  older  type  is  more  serene,  composed, 
conservative,  orderly.  In  criticism  it  is  more  objec 
tive  ;  it  upholds  the  standards,  it  lays  down  the  law ; 
it  cherishes  the  academic  spirit.  The  French  mind 
is  the  more  Catholic ;  the  English  the  more  Protest 
ant.  In  literature  the  Protestant  type  is  the  more 
subjective  and  creative ;  it  makes  new  discoveries,  it 
founds  new  orders.  Catholicism  is  exterior,  formal, 
imposing ;  it  takes  little  account  of  personal  needs 
and  peculiarities,  while  Protestantism  is  almost  en 
tirely  concerned  with  the  private,  interior  world. 
Individualism  in  religion  begat  Protestantism,  and 


126  LITERARY   VALUES 

upon  Protestantism  it  begat  the  numerous  progeny 
of  the  sects,  the  thousand  and  one  isms  that  now 
divide  the  religious  world.  To  this  spirit  religion  is 
something  personal  and  private  to  every  man,  and  in 
no  sense  a  matter  of  forms  and  rituals.  In  fact,  in 
dividualism  fairly  confronts  institutionalism.  This 
spirit  carried  into  the  region  of  aesthetics  or  liter 
ature  gives  rise  to  like  results,  —  to  a  freer  play  of 
personal  taste  and  preferences,  to  more  intense  indi 
vidual  utterances,  to  new  and  unique  types  of  artistic 
genius,  and  to  new  lines  of  activity  in  the  aesthetic 
field. 

Another  name  for  it  is  the  democratic  spirit.  Its 
special  dangers  are  the  crude,  the  odd,  the  capricious, 
just  as  the  danger  of  institutionalism  is  the  coldly 
formal,  the  lifeless,  the  traditional.  In  English  lit 
erature  the  former  begat  Shakespeare,  as  it  did  Tup- 
per ;  the  latter  begat  Milton,  as  it  did  Young  and 
Pollock.  With  institutionalism  goes  the  divine  right 
of  kings,  the  sacredness  of  priests,  the  authority  of 
forms  and  ceremonies,  and  the  slavery  of  the  masses ; 
with  individualism  goes  the  divinity  of  man,  the 
sacredness  of  life,  the  right  of  private  judgment, 
the  decay  of  traditions  and  forms,  and  the  birth 
of  the  modern  spirit.  With  one  goes  stateliness, 
impressiveness,  distinction,  as  well  as  the  empty, 
the  moribund,  the  despotic ;  with  the  other  goes 
force,  strenuousness,  originality,  as  well  as  the  loud, 
the  amorphous,  the  fanatical. 


RECENT  PHASES   OF  LITERARY   CRITICISM      127 


Goethe  said  that  a  loving  interest  in  the  per 
son  and  the  works  of  an  author,  amounting  to  a 
certain  one-sided  enthusiasm,  alone  led  to  reality  in 
criticism ;  all  else  was  vanity.  No  doubt  more  will 
come  of  the  contact  of  two  minds  under  these  cir 
cumstances  than  from  what  is  called  the  judicial 
attitude ;  there  will  be  more  complete  fusion  and 
interpenetration ;  without  a  certain  warmth  and  pas 
sion  there  is  no  fruitfulness,  even  in  criticism.  In 
the  field  of  art  and  literature,  to  be  disinterested 
does  not  mean  to  be  cold  and  judicial ;  it  means  to 
be  free  from  bias,  free  from  theories  and  systems, 
with  mind  open  to  receive  a  clear  impression  of  the 
work's  characteristic  merits  and  qualities. 

It  is  tradition  that  always  stands  in  the  way  of 
the  new  man.  In  politics,  it  is  the  political  tradi 
tion  ;  in  religion,  the  religious  tradition ;  and  in 
literature,  the  literary  tradition.  Professional  criti 
cism  is  the  guardian  of  the  literary  tradition,  and 
this  is  why  any  man  who  essays  a  new  departure  in 
literary  art  has  reason  to  fear  criticism  or  despise  it, 
as  the  case  may  be. 

It  is  when  we  take  up  any  new  work  in  the  judi 
cial  spirit,  bent  upon  judging  and  classifying,  rather 
than  upon  enjoying  and  understanding,  the  conscious 
analytical  intellect  on  duty  and  the  sympathies  and 
the  intuitions  under  lock  and  key,  that  there  is 
danger  that  judicial  blindness  will  fall  upon  us. 
When  we  approach  nature  in  the  spirit  of  technical 


128  LITERARY   VALUES 

science,  our  minds  already  preoccupied  with  certain 
conclusions  and  systems,  do  we  get  as  much  of  the 
joy  and  stimulus  which  she  holds  for  us  as  do  the 
children  on  the  way  to  school  of  a  spring  morning 
with  their  hands  full  of  wild  flowers,  or  as  does  the 
gleesome  saunterer  over  hills  in  summer  with  only 
love  and  appreciation  uppermost  in  his  mind  ? 

Professional  criticism  often  becomes  mere  pedago 
gical  narrowness  and  hardness  ;  it  gets  crushed  over 
with  rules  and  precedents,  pinched  and  sterilized  by 
routine  and  convention,  so  that  a  new  work  makes 
no  impression  upon  it.  The  literary  tradition,  like 
the  religious  tradition,  ceases  to  be  vital  and  forma 
tive. 

Is  it  not  true  that  all  first-class  works  have  to  be 
approached  with  a  certain  humility  and  free  giving 
of  one's  self  ?  In  a  sense,  "  except  ye  become  as 
little  children  "  ye  cannot  enter  the  kingdom  of  the 
great  books. 

I  suppose  that  to  get  at  the  true  inwardness  of 
any  imaginative  work,  we  must  read  it  as  far  as  pos 
sible  in  its  own  spirit,  and  that  if  it  does  not  engraft 
and  increase  its  own  spirit  upon  us,  then  it  is  feeble 
and  may  easily  be  brushed  aside. 

Criticism  which  has  for  its  object  the  discovery  of 
new  talent  and,  in  Sainte-Beuve's  words,  to  "  appor 
tion  to  each  kind  of  greatness  its  due  influence  and 
superiority,"  is  one  thing ;  and  criticism  the  object 
of  which  is  to  uphold  and  enforce  the  literary  tradi 
tion,  is  quite  another.  Consciously  or  unconsciously, 
when  the  trained  reader  opens  a  new  book  he  is  under 


RECENT   PHASES   OF  LITERARY  CRITICISM      129 

the  influence  of  one  or  the  other  of  these  notions,  — 
either  he  submits  himself  to  it  disinterestedly,  intent 
only  upon  seizing  and  appreciating  its  characteristic 
quality,  or  he  comes  prepossessed  with  certain  rules 
and  standards  upon  which  his  taste  has  been  formed. 
In  other  words,  he  comes  to  the  new  work  simply 
as  a  man,  a  human  being  seeking  edification,  or  he 
comes  clothed  in  some  professional  authority,  seek 
ing  judgment. 

Our  best  reading  is  a  search  for  the  excellent ; 
but  what  is  the  excellent  ?  Is  there  any  final  stand 
ard  of  excellence  in  literature  ?  Each  may  be  ex 
cellent  after  its  kind,  but  kinds  differ.  There  is  one 
excellence  of  Milton  and  Arnold  and  the  classic 
school,  and  another  excellence  of  Shakespeare  and 
Pope  and  Burns  and  Wordsworth  and  Whitman,  or 
of  the  romantic  and  democratic  school.  The  critic 
is  to  hold  a  work  up  to  its  own  ideal  or  standard. 
Of  the  perfect  works,  or  the  works  that  aim  at  per 
fection,  at  absolute  symmetry  and  proportion,  ap 
pealing  to  us  through  the  cunning  of  their  form, 
scheme,  structure,  details,  ornamentation,  we  make 
a  different  demand  from  the  one  we  make  of  a  prim 
itive,  unique,  individual  utterance  or  expression  of 
personality  like  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  in  which  the  end 
is  not  form,  but  life ;  not  perfection,  but  suggestion  ; 
not  intellect,  but  character  ;  not  beauty,  but  power ; 
not  carving,  or  sculpture,  or  architecture,  but  the 
building  of  a  man. 

It  is  no  doubt  a  great  loss  to  be  compelled  to  read 
any  work  of  literary  art  in  a  conscious  critical  mood, 


130  LITERARY   VALUES 

because  the  purely  intellectual  interest  in  such  a 
work  which  criticism  demands,  is  far  less  satisfying 
than  our  aesthetic  interest.  The  mood  in  which  we 
enjoy  a  poem  is  analogous  to  that  in  which  it  was 
conceived.  We  have  here  the  reason  why  the  pro 
fessional  reviewer  is  so  apt  to  miss  the  characteristic 
quality  of  the  new  book,  and  why  the  readers  of 
great  publishing  houses  make  so  many  mistakes. 
They  call  into  play  a  conscious  mental  force  that  is 
inimical  to  the  emotional  mood  in  which  the  work 
had  its  rise ;  what  was  love  in  the  poet  becomes  a 
pale  intellectual  reflection  in  the  critic. 

Love  must  come  first,  or  there  can  be  no  true 
criticism ;  the  intellectual  process  must  follow  and 
be  begotten  by  an  emotional  process.  Indeed,  criti 
cism  is  an  afterthought ;  it  is  such  an  account  as  we 
can  give  of  the  experience  we  have  had  in  private 
communion  with  the  subject  of  it.  The  conscious 
analytical  intellect  takes  up  one  by  one,  and  exam 
ines  the  impression  made  upon  our  subconsciousness 
by  the  new  poem  or  novel. 

Where  nothing  has  been  sown,  nothing  can  be 
reaped.  The  work  that  has  yielded  us  no  enjoyment 
will  yield  us  no  positive  results  in  criticism.  Dr. 
Louis  Waldstein,  in  his  suggestive  work  on  "  The 
Subconscious  Self,"  discovers  that  the  critical  or 
intellectual  mood  is  foreign  to  art ;  that  it  destroys 
or  decreases  the  spontaneity  necessary  to  creation. 
This  is  why  the  critical  and  the  creative  faculty  so 
rarely  go  together,  or  why  one  seems  to  work  against 
the  other.  Probably  in  all  normal,  well-balanced 


RECENT   PHASES   OF  LITERARY   CRITICISM      131 

minds  the  appreciation  of  a  work  of  the  imagination 
is  a  matter  of  feeling  and  intuition  long  before  it  is 
a  matter  of  intellectual  cognizance.  Not  all  minds 
can  give  a  reason  for  the  faith  that  is  in  them,  and  it 
is  not  important  that  they  should  ;  the  main  mat 
ter  is  the  faith:  Every  great  work  of  art  will  he 
found  upon  examination  to  have  an  ample  ground  of 
critical  principles  to  rest  upon,  though  in  the  artist's 
own  mind  not  one  of  these  principles  may  have  been 
consciously  defined. 

Indeed,  the  artist  who  works  from  any  theory  is 
foredoomed  to  at  least  partial  failure.  And  art  that 
lends  itself  to  any  propaganda,  or  to  any  idea  "  out 
side  its  essential  form,  falls  short  of  being  a  pure 
art  creation." 

The  critical  spirit,  when  it  has  hardened  into  fixed 
standards,  is  always  a  bar  to  the  enjoyment  or  under 
standing  of  a  poet.  One  then  has  a  poetical  creed, 
as  he  has  a  political  or  religious  creed,  and  this  creed 
is  likely  to  stand  between  him  and  the  appreciation 
of  a  new  poetic  type.  Macaulay  thought  Leigh  Hunt 
was  barred  from  appreciating  his  "  Lays  of  Ancient 
Home  "  by  his  poetical  creed,  which  may  have  been 
the  case.  Jeffrey  was  no  doubt  barred  from  appre 
ciating  Wordsworth  by  his  poetical  creed.  It  was 
Byron's  poetical  creed  that  led  him  to  rank  Pope  so 
highly.  A  critic  who  holds  to  one  of  the  conflicting 
creeds  about  fiction,  either  that  it  should  be  realistic 
or  romantic,  will  not  do  justice  to  the  other  type. 
If  Tolstoi  is  his  ideal,  he  will  set  little  value  on 
Scott ;  or  if  he  exalts  Hawthorne,  he  will  depreciate 


132  LITERARY  VALUES 

Howells.  What  the  disinterested  observer  demands 
is  the  best  possible  work  of  each  after  its  kind.  Or, 
if  he  is  to  compare  and  appraise  the  two  kinds,  then 
I  think  that  without  doubt  his  conclusion  will  be 
that  the  realistic  novel  is  the  later,  maturer  growth, 
more  in  keeping  with  the  modern  demand  for  real 
ity  in  all  fields,  and  that  the  romantic  belongs  more 
to  the  world  of  childish  things,  which  we  are  fast 
leaving  behind  us. 

Our  particular  predilections  in  literature  must,  no 
doubt,  be  carefully  watched.  There  is  danger  in 
personal  absorption  in  an  author,  — danger  to  our 
intellectual  freedom.  One  would  not  feel  for  a  poet 
the  absorbing  and  exclusive  love  that  the  lover  feels 
for  his  mistress,  because  one  would  rather  have  the 
whole  of  literature  for  his  domain.  One  would 
rather  admire  Rabelais  with  Sainte-Beuve,  as  a  Ho 
meric  buffoon,  than  be  a  real  "  Pantagruelist  devo 
tee,"  who  finds  a  flavor  even  in  "  the  dregs  of  Mas 
ter  Franqois's  cask "  that  he  prefers  to  all  others. 
No  doubt  some  of  us,  goaded  on  by  the  opposite 
vice  in  readers  and  critics,  have  been  guilty  of  an 
intemperate  enthusiasm  toward  Whitman  and  Brown- 
ing.  To  make  a  cult  of  either  of  these  authors,  ot 
of  any  other,  is  to  shut  one's  self  up  in  a  part  when 
the  whole  is  open  to  him.  The  opposite  vice,  that  of 
violent  personal  antipathy,  is  equally  to  be  avoided 
in  criticism.  Probably  Sainte-Beuve  was  guilty  of 
this  vice  in  his  attitude  toward  Balzac  ;  Scherer  in 
his  criticism  of  Beranger,  and  Landor  in  his  dislike 
of  Dante.  One  might  also  cite  Emerson's  distaste 


RECENT   PHASES   OF  LITERARY   CRITICISM      133 

for  Poe  and  Shelley,  and  Arnold's  antipathy  to  Vic 
tor  Hugo's  poetry.  Likes  and  dislikes  in  literature 
that  are  temperamental,  that  are  like  the  attraction 
or  repulsion  of  bodies  in  different  electrical  condi 
tions,  are  hard  to  be  avoided,  but  the  trained  reader 
may  hope  to  overcome  them.  Taste  is  personal,  but 
the  intellect  is,  or  should  be,  impersonal,  and  to  be 
able  to  guide  the  former  by  the  light  of  the  latter  is 
the  signal  triumph  of  criticism. 


VI 

"  THOU  SHALT  NOT  PREACH  " 
After  Reading  Tolstoi  on  *'  What  is  Art  ?  " 


is  one  respect  in  which  pure  art  and  pure 
science  agree  :  both  are  disinterested,  and  seek 
the  truth,  each  of  its  kind,  for  its  own  sake  ;  neither 
has  any  axe  to  grind.  Both  would  live  in  the  whole, 
—  one  through  reason  and  investigation,  the  other 
through  imagination  and  contemplation.  Science 
seeks  to  understand  the  universe,  art  to  enjoy  it.  A 
man  of  pure  science  like  Darwin  is  as  disinterested 
as  a  great  artist  like  Shakespeare.  He  has  no  prac 
tical  or  secondary  ends  ;  the  truth  alone  is  his  quest. 
He  is  tracing  the  footsteps  of  creative  energy  through 
organic  nature.  He  is  like  a  detective  working  up  a 
case.  His  theory  about  it  is  only  provisional,  for 
the  moment.  Every  fact  is  welcome  to  him,  and 
the  more  it  seems  to  tell  against  his  theory  of  the 
case,  the  more  eagerly  he  weighs  it  and  studies  it. 
Indeed,  the  man  of  science  follows  an  ideal  as  truly 
as  does  the  poet,  and  will  pass  by  fortune,  honors, 
and  all  worldly  success,  to  cleave  to  it.  Tolstoi 
thinks  that  science  for  science'  sake  is  as  bad  as  art 
for  art's  sake  ;  but  is  not  knowledge  a  reward  in  it 
self,  and  is  there  any  higher  good  than  that  mastery 


THOU  SHALT  NOT  PREACH       135 

of  the  intellect  over  the  problems  of  the  universe 
which  science  gives  ?  By  bending  science  to  partic 
ular  and  secondary  ends  we  lay  the  basis  of  our  ma 
terial  civilization,  but  it  is  still  true  that  the  final  end 
of  science  is,  not  our  material  benefit,  but  our  mental 
enlightenment ;  nor  is  the  highest  end  of  art  the  good 
which  the  preacher  and  the  moralist  seek  to  give  us. 
A  poem  of  Milton's  or  Tennyson's  carries  its  own 
proof,  its  own  justification.  When  we  demand  a  mes 
sage  of  the  poet,  or  of  any  artist,  outside  of  himself, 
outside  of  the  truth  which  he  unconsciously  con 
veys  through  his  own  personality  and  point  of  view, 
we  degrade  his  art,  or  destroy  that  disinterestedness 
which  is  its  crown.  Art  exists  for  ideal  ends ;  it 
looks  askance  at  devotees,  at  doctrinaires,  at  all 
men  engaged  in  the  dissemination  of  particular  ideas. 
I  am  not  now  thinking  of  art  as  mere  craft,  but  as 
the  province  of  man's  freest,  most  spontaneous,  most 
joyous,  most  complete  soul  activity,  —  the  kind  of 
activity  that  has  no  other  end,  seeks  no  other  reward, 
than  it  finds  in  or  of  itself,  the  joy  of  being  and  be 
holding,  the  free  play  of  creative  energy.  Art  does 
not  rebuke  vice,  it  depicts  it ;  it  does  not  urge  re 
form,  it  shows  us  the  reformers.  Its  work  is  play, 
its  lesson  is  an  allegory.  The  preacher  works  by 
selection  and  exclusion,  the  artist  by  inclusion  and 
contrast. 

When  the  resources  of  literary  art  are  enlisted  in 
any  propaganda,  in  the  dissemination  of  particular 
ideas  or  doctrines,  or  when  the  end  is  moral  or  sci 
entific  or  political  or  philosophical,  and  not  aesthetic, 


136  LITERARY   VALUES 

the  result  is  a  mixed  product,  a  cross  between  litera 
ture  and  something  else,  which  may  be  very  vigorous 
and  serviceable,  but  which  cannot  give  the  kind  of 
satisfaction  that  is  imparted  by  a  pure  artistic  crea 
tion.  A  great  poem  or  work  of  art  does  not  speak 
to  any  special  and  passing  condition,  mental  or  spir 
itual  ;  its  ministrations  are  neither  those  of  meat  nor 
those  of  medicine  ;  it  does  not  subserve  any  private 
or  secondary  ends,  even  the  saving  of  our  souls. 
The  books  that  seem  written  for  us  are  quite  certain 
to  lose  in  interest  to  the  next  generation.  A  great 
poem  heals,  not  as  the  doctor  heals,  but  as  nature 
does,  by  bringing  the  conditions  of  health.  It  con 
soles,  not  as  the  priest  consoles,  but  as  love  and  life 
themselves  do.  It  does  not  offer  a  special  good,  but 
a  general  benefaction. 

I  once  heard  Emerson  quote  with  approval  Shake 
speare's  saying,  "  Head  what  you  most  affect ;"  but  no 
doubt  a  broad  culture  demands  wide  reading,  and  that 
we  be  on  our  guard  against  our  particular  predilec 
tions,  because  such  predilections  may  lead  us  into  nar 
row  channels.  Do  the  devotees  of  Browning,  those 
who  cry  Browning,  Browning,  and  Browning  only, 
do  him  the  highest  honor  ?  Do  the  disciples  of 
Whitman,  who  would  make  a  cult  of  him,  live  in 
the  spirit  of  the  whole,  as  Whitman  himself  tried  to 
live  ?  —  Whitman,  who  said  that  there  may  be  any 
number  of  Supremes,  and  that  the  chief  lesson  to  be 
learned  under  the  master  is  how  to  destroy  him  ? 
Our  love  for  an  author  must  not  suggest  the  fondness 
of  the  epicure  for  a  special  dish,  or  partake  of  the 


THOU  SHALT  NOT  PREACH       137 

lover's  infatuation  for  his  mistress.  Infatuation  is 
not  permissible  in  literature.  If  art  does  not  make 
us  free  of  the  whole,  it  fails  of  its  purpose.  Only 
the  religious  bigot  builds  upon  specific  texts,  and  only 
the  one-sided^  half-formed  mind  sees  life  through  the 
eyes  of  a  single  author.  In  the  aesthetic  sphere  one 
may  serve  many  masters  ;  he  may  give  himself  to 
none.  One  of  the  latest  and  most  mature  percep 
tions  that  comes  to  us  is  the  perception  of  relativity, 
in  art  as  well  as  in  all  other  matters. 

With  respect  to  this  question,  both  readers  and 
writers  may  be  divided  into  two  classes,  the  inter 
ested  and  the  disinterested,  —  those  who  are  seeking 
special  and  personal  ends,  and  those  who  are  seeking 
general,  universal  ends. 

The  poet  is  best  pleased  with  the  disinterested 
readers  and  admirers  of  his  work  ;  that  is,  with 
those  who  take  to  it  on  the  broadest  human  grounds, 
and  not  upon  grounds  merely  personal  to  them 
selves.  Thus  Longfellow  will  find  a  wider  and 
more  disinterested  audience  than  Whittier,  because 
his  Muse  is  less  in  the  service  of  special  ideas  ;  he 
looks  at  life  less  as  a  Quaker  and  a  Puritan,  and 
more  as  a  man. 

The  special  ideas  of  an  age,  its  moral  enthusiasms 
and  revolts,  give  place  to  other  ideas  and  enthusi 
asms,  which  in  their  turn  give  place  to  others ;  but 
there  are  certain  currents  of  thought  and  emotion 
that  are  perennial,  certain  experiences  common  to 
all  men  and  peoples.  Such  a  poem  as  Gray's  Elegy, 
for  instance,  is  filled  with  the  breadth  of  universal 


138  LITERARY  VALUES 

human  life.  On  the  other  hand,  such  a  work  as 
Schiller's  "  Robbers,"  or  Goethe's  "  Werther,"  seems 
to  us  like  an  empty  shell  picked  up  on  the  shore,  the 
life  entirely  gone  out  of  it.  One  can  see  why  Poe 
is  looked  upon  by  foreign  critics  as  outranking  any 
of  our  more  popular  New  England  poets.  It  is  be 
cause  his  work  has  more  of  the  ubiquitous  character 
of  true  art,  is  less  pledged  to  moral  and  special  ends, 
less  the  result  of  personal  tastes  and  attractions,  and 
more  the  pure  flame  of  the  unpledged  aesthetic  na 
ture.  The  "  Raven  "  and  "  The  Bells  "  have  that 
play,  that  scorn  of  personal  ends,  that  potential  spir 
itual  energy,  of  great  art.  Poe  does  not  increase 
our  stock  of  ideas  or  widen  the  sphere  of  our  sym 
pathies.  He  was  a  conjurer  with  words.  As  a  poet 
he  used  language  for  the  music  he  could  evoke  from 
it.  What  is  the  mental  content  of  his  "Annabel 
Lee  "  ?  It  is  as  vague  and  shadowy  as  its  angels 
and  demons,  its  sepulchres  and  seraphim,  and  its 
kingdom  by  the  sea. 

Is  it  Coleridge  who  tells  of  an  artist  who  al 
ways  copied  his  wife's  legs  in  his  pictures,  and 
thereby  won  great  fame  ?  The  creative  touch  it  is 
that  marks  the  artist.  He  smites  the  rocks,  and  a 
fountain  gushes  forth.  Tennyson  has  the  artist 
nature  in  greater  measure  than  Wordsworth,  a  more 
flexible  receptive  spirit,  though  he  never  attains  to 
the  homely  pathos  or  the  moral  grandeur  of  the 
latter.  Yet  individual  convictions  and  attractions 
played  a  less  part  in  his  poetry.  Wordsworth 
gathered  the  harvest  of  his  own  feelings  and  ex- 


THOU  SHALT  NOT  PREACH       139 

periences,  Tennyson  that  of  other  men  as  well. 
One  reaped  only  where  he  had  sown,  the  other 
where  all  men  had  sown.  One  is  colored  by  West 
moreland,  the  other  by  the  whole  of  England. 
Wordsworth  ,wrote  more  from  character  and  natural 
bias  than  Tennyson.  What  nature  does  with  a  man, 
—  that  is  no  credit  to  him ;  but  what  he  does  with 
nature.  If  his  character  inspired  the  poem,  is  it 
not  less  than  if  his  imagination  had  inspired  it  ? 
What  a  man  does  out  of  and  independent  of  him 
self,  or  the  degree  in  which  he  transcends  his  own 
experience  and  partialities  and  rises  into  universal 
relations,  —  is  not  that  the  measure  of  him  as  an 
artist  ?  If  I  tell  only  what  I  know,  what  I  have 
felt,  what  I  have  seen,  no  matter  how  well  I  do  it, 
that  is  not  to  come  into  the  sphere  the  artist  dwells 
in.  What  Wordsworth  writes  is  more  personal  to 
himself,  more  out  of  his  own  life,  than  what  Ten 
nyson  writes.  He  is  more  limited  by  his  tempera 
ment  and  natural  bias  than  Tennyson  is  by  his. 
His  word  is  more  inevitable,  more  the  word  of  fate, 
but  is  it  not  therefore  less  the  word  of  art  ?  Be 
sincere,  be  sincere ;  be  not  too  sincere,  lest  you  sub 
stitute  a  moral  rigidity  for  the  flexibility  demanded 
by  art.  The  artist  is  never  the  slave  of  his  sin 
cerity. 

Graphic  power  is  only  a  minor  part  of  artistic 
power.  One  can  say  what  one  has  felt,  and  tell 
what  one  has  experienced ;  but  the  artist  can  tell 
what  he  has  not  experienced,  and  say  what  he  has 
not  felt.  He  can  make  the  assumed,  the  imaginary, 


140  LITERARY  VALUES 

real  to  himself  and  to  his  reader.  He  can  depict 
the  passion  of  love,  of  anger,  of  remorse,  though  he 
may  never  have  felt  them.  Many  persons  have 
written  one  good  novel,  but  not  a  second,  because 
in  the  first  they  exhausted  their  experience ;  to 
transcend  that  is  denied  them.  True  art  will  have 
many  messages  and  many  morals,  as  life  and  nature 
have,  but  we  must  draw  them  out  for  ourselves. 
They  do  not  lead,  they  follow ;  they  do  not  make 
the  argument,  they  are  made  by  it.  Let  us  repeat 
and  re-repeat.  Art  makes  us  free  of  the  whole,  — 
not  art  for  craft's  sake,  but  art  as  implying  the  en 
tire  sphere  of  man's  spontaneous  aesthetic  activity. 
Beauty  is  indeed  its  own  excuse  for  being.  Litera 
ture  is  an  end  in  and  of  itself,  as  much  as  music 
is  or  religion  is.  Or  are  we  religious  only  upon 
pay  ?  What  message  has  a  bird,  a  flower,  a  summer 
day,  frost,  rain,  wind,  snow  ?  There  are  sermons  in 
stones  —  when  we  put  them  there.  What  message 
has  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Dante,  Virgil,  or  any  true 
poet  ?  The  message  we  have  the  power  to  draw 
from  him,  and  no  two  of  us  will  draw  the  same. 
Art  is  a  circle ;  it  is  complete  within  itself ;  it  re 
turns  forever  upon  itself.  There  is  no  great  poetry 
without  great  ideas,  and  yet  the  ideas  must  exist  as 
impulse,  will,  emotion,  and  not  lie  upon  the  surface 
as  formulas.  The  enemies  of  art  are  reflection, 
special  ideas,  conscious  intellectual  processes,  be 
cause  these  things  isolate  us  and  shut  us  off  from 
the  life  of  the  whole,  —  from  that  which  we  reach 
through  our  sentiments  and  emotions.  The  aesthetic 


THOU  SHALT  NOT  PKEACH       141 

mood,  says  the  author  of  "  The  Subconscious  Self," 
"  is,  in  its  essence,  receptive,  contemplative,  distinctly 
personal,  and  therefore  free  from  purpose  and  con 
scious  selection."  "  Whenever  a  work  of  art  is  the 
vehicle  for  an  idea  or  purpose  outside  of  its  essential 
form,  it  falls  short  of  being  a  pure  art  creation,  and 
fails  in  its  appeal  to  the  aesthetic  mood,  whilst,  be 
it  conceded,  it  may  serve  some  other  but  secondary 
purpose,  which  belongs  to  the  province  of  the  archae 
ologist,  the  art  historian,  and  the  collector,"  and, 
we  may  add,  the  moralist  and  preacher.  Words 
worth's  poet  was  content  if  he  "might  enjoy  the 
things  that  others  understood,"  and  this  is  always 
characteristic  of  the  poetic  mood.  Absorption,  con 
templation,  enjoyment,  and  not  criticism  and  reflec 
tion,  are  as  the  air  it  breathes.  Byron  was  a  great 
poet,  but,  said  Goethe,  "  the  moment  he  reflects,  he 
is  a  child."  It  is  better  that  the  poet  should  not 
be  a  child  when  he  reflects,  but  it  is  much  more 
important  that  he  be  a  child  when  he  feels.  His 
power  as  a  poet  does  not  lie  in  the  reflective  facul 
ties,  but  in  the  direct,  joyous,  solvent  power  of  his 
spirit. 

We  do  not  find  our  individual  selves  in  great 
art,  but  the  humanity  of  which  we  are  partakers. 
Something  is  brought  home  to  us ;  but  not  to  our 
partialities,  rather  to  our  higher  selves.  We  are 
never  so  little  selfish  and  hampered  by  our  individ 
ualism  as  when  admiring  a  great  work  of  the  imagi 
nation.  No  doubt  our  modern  world  calls  for  doc 
tors  of  the  soul  in  a  sense  that  the  more  healthful 


142  LITERARY   VALUES 

and  joyous  pagan  world  had  no  need  of.  Still,  so 
far  as  the  poet  is  a  doctor  or  a  priest,  so  far  does  he 
fail  to  live  in  the  spirit  of  the  whole. 

It  is,  I  think,  in  these  or  similar  considerations 
that  we  are  to  look  for  the  justification  of  the  phrase, 
now  almost  everywhere  disputed,  "  Art  for  art's 
sake."  It  is  only  saying  that  art  is  to  have  no  par 
tial  or  secondary  ends,  but  is  to  breathe  forth  the 
spirit  of  the  whole.  It  must  be  disinterested  ;  it  is 
to  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature.  It  may  hold  the 
mirror  up  to  the  vices  and  follies  of  the  age,  but 
must  not  take  sides.  It  represents ;  it  does  not 
judge.  The  matter  is  self-judged  in  the  handling 
of  the  true  artist.  Didactic  poetry  or  didactic  fiction 
can  never  rank  high.  Thou  shalt  not  preach  or 
teach  ;  thou  shalt  portray  and  create,  and  have  ends 
as  universal  as  has  nature. 

Our  moral  teachers  and  preachers  often  fail  to  see 
that  the  first  condition  of  a  work  of  pure  art  is  that 
it  be  disinterested,  that  it  be  a  total  and  complete 
product  in  and  of  itself  ;  and  that  it  is  its  own  excuse 
for  being.  Its  business  is  to  represent,  to  portray, 
or,  as  Aristotle  has  it,  to  imitate  nature,  and  not  to 
preach  or  to  moralize.  Our  ethical  and  religious 
writers  and  speakers  are  apt  to  call  this  artistic  dis 
interestedness  indifferentism.  If  the  novelist  does 
not  openly  and  avowedly  take  sides  with  his  good 
characters  against  his  bad,  or  if,  as  Taine  declares  his 
function  to  be,  he  contents  himself  with  represent 
ing  them  to  us  as  they  are,  whole,  not  blaming,  not 


THOU  SHALT  NOT  PKEACH       143 

punishing,  not  mutilating,  transferring  them  to  us 
intact  and  separate,  and  leaving  "  us  the  right  of 
judging  if  we  desire  it,"  —  if  this  is  his  attitude, 
says  the  Reverend  Washington  Gladden  in  his  late 
brochure  on  "  Art  and  Morality,"  he  is  guilty  of  in- 
differentism.  "  His  work  begins  to  be  the  wprk  of 
a  malefactor,  and  he  himself  is  preparing  to  be  fit 
company  for  fiends."  Mr.  Gladden  misapprehends 
Taine,  whom  he  quotes,  and  he  misapprehends  the 
spirit  and  method  of  art.  If  the  artist  does  really 
convey  to  us  the  impression  that  he  is  personally 
indifferent  as  to  which  triumphs  in  life,  good  or  evil, 
and  that  he  is  as  well  pleased  with  the  one  as  with 
the  other,  then  he  is  culpable  and  merits  this  harsh 
language. 

What  art  demands  is  that  the  artist's  personal 
convictions  and  notions,  his  likes  and  dislikes,  do 
not  obtrude  themselves  at  all ;  that  good  and  evil 
stand  judged  in  his  work  by  the  logic  of  events,  as 
they  do  in  nature,  and  not  by  any  special  pleading 
on  his  part.  He  does  not  hold  a  brief  for  either 
side ;  he  exemplifies  the  working  of  the  creative  en 
ergy.  He  is  neither  a  judge  nor  an  advocate  ;  he  is 
a  witness  on  the  stand  ;  he  tells  how  the  thing  fell 
out,  and  the  more  impartial  he  is  as  a  witness,  the 
better.  We,  the  jury,  shall  watch  carefully  for  any 
bias  or  leaning  on  his  part.  We  shall  try  his  testi 
mony  by  the  rules  of  evidence ;  in  this  case,  by  our 
acquaintance  with  other  imaginative  works  and  by 
our  experience  of  life.  The  great  artist  works  in 
and  through  and  from  moral  ideas  ;  his  works  are 


144  LITERARY    VALUES 

indirectly  a  criticism  of  life.  He  is  moral  without 
having  a  moral.  The  moment  a  moral  or  an  im 
moral  intention  obtrudes  itself,  that  moment  he  be 
gins  to  fall  from  grace  as  an  artist.  He  confesses  his 
inability  to  let  nature  speak  for  herself.  He  is  in 
adequate  to  the  logic  of  events,  and  gives  us  a  logic 
of  his  own.  Shakespeare  is  our  highest  type  of  the 
disinterested  artist.  Does  he  do  aught  but  hold  the 
mirror  up  to  nature  ?  Is  his  work  overlaid  with  an 
avowed  moral  intention  ?  Does  he  go  behind  the 
returns,  so  to  speak  ?  Does  he  tamper  with  the 
logic  of  events,  the  fate  of  character  ?  What  is  the 
moral  of  "  Hamlet  "  ?  Has  any  one  yet  found  out  ? 
Yet  the  plays  all  fall  within  the  scope  of  moral 
ideas  ;  they  treat  moral  ideas  with  energy  and  depth, 
as  Voltaire  said  of  English  poetry  in  general. 

We  must  discriminate  between  a  conscious  moral 
purpose  and  an  unconscious  moral  impulse.  A  work 
of  art  arises  primarily  out  of  the  emotions,  and  not  out 
of  the  intellect,  and  is  sound  and  true  to  the  extent  to 
which  it  repeats  the  method  of  nature.  Buskin, 
whom  Mr.  Gladden  quotes,  was  of  course  right  when 
he  said  that  the  art  of  a  nation  is  an  exponent  of  its 
ethical  state.  But  the  condition  of  first  importance 
with  the  artist  is,  not  that  he  should  have  an  ethi 
cal  purpose,  but  that  he  should  be  ethically  sound. 
He  may  work  with  ethical  ideas,  but  not  directly 
for  them.  The  preacher  speaks  for  them  ;  the  poet 
speaks  out  of  them,  —  he  plays  with  them,  he  takes 
his  will  of  them ;  they  follow,  but  do  not  lead  him. 
Again,  Kuskin  says,  "He  is  the  greatest  artist  who 


THOU  SHALT  NOT  PREACH        145 

has  embodied  in  the  sum  of  his  works  the  greatest 
number  of  the  greatest  ideas ; "  but  he  is  an  artist 
only  by  virtue  of  having  embodied  these  ideas  in  an 
imaginative  form.  If  they  run  through  his  work  as 
homilies  or  intellectual  propositions,  or  lie  upon  it 
as  moral  reflections,  they  are  not  within  the  vital 
sphere  of  art. 

Art  is  not  thought,  but  will,  impulse,  intuition ; 
not  ideas,  but  ideality.  None  knew  this  better  than 
Ruskin.  No  great  artist  can  be  cornered  with  the 
question,  "  What  for  ?  "  What  is  creation  for  ? 
What  are  you  and  I  for  ?  The  catechism  answers 
promptly  enough,  and  the  artist  does  not  contradict 
it.  But  of  necessity  his  answer  is  not  so  dogmatic ;  or 
rather,  he  does  not  give  a  direct  answer  at  all,  but  lets 
the  epitome  of  life  which  he  brings  answer  for  him. 
He  is  not  to  exhibit  the  forces  of  life  harnessed  to  a 
purpose  and  tilling  some  man's  private  domain,  but 
he  is  to  show  them  in  spontaneous  play  and  fusion, 
obeying  no  law  but  their  own,  and  working  to  uni 
versal  ends.  His  work  is  finally  for  our  edification. 
If  it  be  also  for  our  reproof,  he  must  conceal  his  pur 
pose  so  well  that  we  do  not  suspect  it.  He  must  let 
the  laws  of  life  alone  speak  for  him.  Sainte-Beuve 
has  a  passage  bearing  upon  this  subject  which  is  ad 
mirable.  He  had  been  censured  as  a  critic  for  being 
too  lax  in  his  dealings  with  the  morality  of  works  of 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries.  Let  me 
quote  his  reply  :  "  If  there  are  some  readers  (and  I 
think  I  know  some)  who  would  prefer  to  see  me 
censure  it  oftener  and  more  roundly,  I  beg  them  to 


146  LITERARY   VALUES 

observe  that  I  succeed  much  better  by  provoking 
them  to  condemn  it  themselves  than  by  taking  the 
lead  and  seeming  to  try  to  impose  a  judgment  of  my 
own  every  time.  In  the  long  run,  if  a  critic  does 
this  (or  an  artist  either),  he  always  wearies  and  of 
fends  his  readers.  They  like  to  feel  themselves  more 
severe  than  the  critic.  I  leave  them  that  pleasure. 
For  me,  it  is  enough  if  I  represent  and  depict  things 
faithfully,  so  that  every  one  may  profit  from  the  in 
tellectual  substance  and  the  good  language,  and  be  in 
a  position  to  judge  for  himself  the  other,  wholly 
moral  parts.  There,  however,  I  am  careful  not  to 
be  crucial."  French  art  is  less  moral  than  English 
art,  not  because  it  preaches  less,  but  because  it  is 
more  given  to  levity  and  trifling,  because  it  exagger 
ates  the  part  one  element  plays  in  life,  and  because 
it  draws  less  inspiration  from  fundamental  ethical 
ideas.  It  may  at  times  be  guilty  of  indifferentism, 
but  against  very  little  English  or  American  art  can 
this  charge  be  made. 

The  great  distinction  of  art  is  that  it  aims  to  see 
life  steadily  and  to  see  it  whole.  This  is  its  high 
and  unique  service ;  it  would  enable  us  to  live  in  the 
whole  and  in  the  spirit  of  the  whole  ;  not  in  the  part 
called  morality,  or  philosophy,  or  religion,  or  beauty, 
but  in  the  unity  resulting  from  the  fusion  and  trans 
formation  of  these  varied  elements.  It  affords  the 
one  point  of  view  whence  the  world  appears  harmo 
nious  and  complete.  The  moralist,  the  preacher, 
seizes  upon  a  certain  part  of  the  world,  and  makes 
much  of  that ;  the  philosopher  seizes  upon  another 


THOU  SHALT  NOT  PREACH       147 

part,  the  aesthete  upon  another ;  only  the  great  artist 
comprehends  and  includes  all  these,  and  sees  life  and 
nature  as  a  vital,  consistent  whole. 

Hence  it  is  that  a  work  of  pure  art  is  a  complete 
product  in  a,  sense  that  no  other  production  of  a 
man's  mind  is ;  or,  as  Ruskin  says,  "It  is  the  work 
of  the  whole  spirit  of  man/'  and  faithfully  reflects 
that  spirit.  The  intellect  may  write  the  sermon,  or 
the  essay,  or  the  criticism,  but  the  character,  the  en 
tire  life  and  personality  are  implicated  in  a  creative 
wrork. 

Disinterestedness  means  no  more  in  art,  in  letters, 
than  it  means  in  life.  In  our  kind  deeds,  our  acts 
of  charity,  in  love,  in  virtue,  we  act  from  disinter 
ested  motives.  We  have  no  ulterior  purpose.  These 
things  are  their  own  reward.  A  noble  life  is  disin 
terested  ;  it  bestows  benefits  without  thought  of  self. 
But  it  is  not  indifferent.  Indifference  is  personal, 
—  it  is  a  state  in  which  one  personal  motive  cancels 
another  ;  whereas  disinterestedness  is  impersonal,  — 
it  is  the  complete  effacement  of  self.  It  is  a  high, 
heroic  moral  state,  while  indifference  is  a  lax  or  neg 
ative  state.  We  are  disinterested  when  we  rescue  a 
child  from  drowning  or  stop  a  runaway  horse,  but  we 
are  not  indifferent.  A  novelist  is  disinterested  when 
he  has  no  motives  but  those  inherent  in  his  story,  no 
purpose  but  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature.  He  is 
interested  and  departs  from  his  high  calling  when  he 
seeks  to  enforce  a  particular  moral,  or  to  indoctrinate 
his  reader  with  a  particular  set  of  ideas.  And  yet  if 
he  betrays  indifference  as  to  the  issues  of  right  and 


148  LITERARY  VALUES 

wrong,  that  is  a  vice  ;  it  is  contrary  to  the  self-efface 
ment  which  art  demands.  To  obtrude  your  indiffer 
ence  is  of  the  same  order  of  faults  as  to  obtrude  your 
preferences.  The  innate  necessities  of  the  situation 
may  alone  speak. 

To  suppress  or  to  ignore  the  world  of  vice  and 
sin  is  not  to  be  moral ;  to  portray  it  is  not  to  be  im 
moral.  But  to  gloat  over  it,  to  dwell  fondly  upon  it, 
to  return  to  it,  to  exaggerate  it,  to  roll  it  under  the 
tongue  as  a  sweet  morsel,  —  that  is  to  be  immoral ; 
and  to  treat  it  as  time  and  nature  do  or  as  the  great 
artists  do,  as  affording  contrasts  and  difficulties,  and 
disturbing  but  not  destroying  the  balance  of  life,  is 
within  the  scope  of  the  moral.  Art  must  make  us 
free  of  the  whole ;  every  work  must  in  a  measure 
reflect  the  whole  of  life  ;  if  it  dwell  too  much  on 
that  part  called  sin  and  evil,  it  is  false  to  its  ideal ; 
it  must  keep  the  balance  ;  it  must  be  true  to  the 
integrity  of  nature.  All  things  are  permissible  in 
their  time  and  place.  That  a  thing  is  real  and 
true  is  no  reason  why  it  should  go  into  the  ar 
tist's  picture  ;  but  that  it  belongs  there,  that  it  is 
organic  there,  a  part  of  a  vital  whole,  and  that  that 
whole  is  a  fair  representation  of  human  life  —  in 
this  is  the  justification.  Not  every  scene  in  nature 
composes  well  into  a  picture,  and  not  every  phase 
of  human  life  is  equally  significant  in  a  creative 
work.  That  nature  does  this  or  that  is  no  reason 
why  the  artist  should  do  it,  unless  he  can  show  an 
equal  insouciance  and  an  equal  prodigality  and  power. 
He  must  take  what  he  can  make  his  own  and  imbue 


THOU  SHALT  NOT  PREACH       149 

with  the  spirit  of  life.  I  lately  read  a  novel  by 
one  of  our  most  promising  young  novelists,  in  which 
there  was  a  streak  of  vulgar  realism,  forced  in, 
evidently,  under  the  pressure  of  a  theory,  —  the  the 
ory  that  art  is  never  to  shrink  from  the  true.  It 
offended  because  it  was  entirely  gratuitous ;  there  was 
no  necessity  for  it.  If  it  was  true,  it  was  not  apt ; 
if  it  was  real,  it  was  not  fit;  it  jarred;  it  was  dragged 
in  by  main  force  ;  it  was  a  false  note.  Is  not  any 
thing  disagreeable  in  a  novel  of  the  imagination  a 
false  note  ?  Disagreeable,  I  mean,  not  by  reason  of 
the  subject  matter,  but  by  reason  of  the  treatment. 
Dante  makes  hell  fascinating  by  his  treatment. 

There  are  three  ways  of  treating  the  under  side 
of  nature.  There  is  the  childlike  simplicity  of  the 
Biblical  writers,  who  think  no  evil  ;  there  is  the 
artistic  frankness  of  the  great  dramatic  poets,  who 
know  the  value  of  foils  and  contrasts,  and  who  can 
not  ignore  any  element  of  life ;  and  there  is  the 
license  and  levity  of  the  lascivious  poets,  who  live 
in  the  erotic  alone.  Both  Ibsen  and  Tolstoi  have 
been  condemned  as  immoral  only  because  their 
artistic  scheme  embraces  all  the  elements  that  are 
potent  in  life.  Of  levity,  of  exaggeration,  they  are 
not  guilty.  If  Zola  is  to  be  condemned,  it  is  prob 
ably  because  he  makes  too  prominent  certain  things, 
and  thus  destroys  the  proportion.  In  nature  no 
thing  is  detached.  Her  great  currents  flow  on  and 
purify  themselves.  The  ugly,  the  unclean,  are 
quickly  lost  sight  of ;  the  sky  and  the  sun  cover  all, 
bathe  all.  But  art  is  detachment  :  our  attention  is 


150  LITERARY   VALUES 

fixed  upon  a  few  points,  and  a  drop  or  two  too 
much  of  certain  things  spoils  it  all.  In  nature  a 
drop  or  two  too  much  does  not  matter ;  we  quickly 
escape,  we  find  compensation.  A  bad  odor  in  the 
open  air  is  of  little  consequence ;  but  in  Zola's 
books  the  bad  odors  are  as  in  a  closed  room,  and  we 
soon  pray  to  be  delivered  from  them. 


VII 

DEMOCRACY  AND  LITERATURE 

one  new  thing  in  the  world  in  our  day  is 
**-  democracy,  the  coming  forward  of  the  people, 
and  that  which  has  grown  out  of  it,  or  which  goes 
along  with  it,  —  science,  free  inquiry,  the  indus 
trial  system,  the  humanitarian  spirit.  The  old  and 
past  world  from  which  we  inherit  our  literary  tastes 
and  standards  was  characterized  by  a  condition  of 
things  quite  different,  —  the  supremacy  of  the  few, 
the  leadership  of  the  hero,  the  strong  man,  —  the 
picturesque  age  that  gave  us  art,  theology,  philoso 
phy,  and  the  great  epic  poems.  It  was  the  youth 
of  the  race.  Mankind  seems  now  fast  nearing  its 
majority.  The  bewitching,  the  delusive,  the  un 
reasoning,  pathetic  time  of  youth  is  past.  What 
the  man  loses  and  what  he  gains  in  passing  from 
youth  to  manhood  the  race  has  lost  and  has  gained 
in  passing  from  the  age  of  myth  to  the  age  of  science. 
A  charm,  an  innocence,  a  susceptibility,  a  credulity, 
arid  many  other  things  are  gone  ;  a  seriousness,  a 
reasonableness,  a  width  of  outlook,  power  to  deal 
with  real  things,  sanity,  and  self-control,  have  come. 
Youth  is  cruel,  age  is  kind  and  considerate.  All 
forms,  ceremonies,  titles,  all  conferred  dignities  and 


152  LITERARY  VALUES 

arbitrary  distinctions,  all  pomp  and  circumstance, 
count  for  less  and  less  in  the  world.  Art  is  less 
and  less ;  nature  is  more  and  more.  The  extrinsic, 
the  put  on,  the  ornamental,  the  factitious,  count  for 
less  and  less  ;  theology,  metaphysics,  the  sacredness 
of  priests,  the  divinity  of  kings,  count  for  less  and 
less,  while  the  real,  the  .  true,  the  essential,  in  all 
fields,  count  for  more.  It  is  doubtful  if  art  for  art's 
sake  can  ever  be  in  the  future  what  it  has  been 
in  the  past.  We  are  too  deeply  absorbed  in  the 
reality  ;  we  care  less  and  less  for  the  symbol  and 
more  and  more  for  the  thing  symbolized.  The 
monarchical  idea  is  dwindling ;  the  throne  as  a 
symbol  has  lost  its  force ;  the  old  religious  language 
of  supplication  and  praise  begins  to  have  a  hollow, 
archaic  sound.  The  idea  of  the  fatherhood  of  God 
is  fast  taking  the  place  of  the  idea  of  the  despotism 
of  God.  It  has  taken  mankind  all  these  centuries 
to  rise  to  the  conception  of  a  being  with  whom  the 
language  of  excessive  flattery  and  adulation  seems 
out  of  place.  The  democratic  idea  will  eventually 
penetrate  and  modify  our  religious  notions.  We 
shall  no  longer  seek  to  propitiate  an  offended  deity 
by  groveling  in  the  dust  before  an  imaginary  throne. 
The  despot  goes  out,  the  Brother  comes  in.  All 
these  things  and  many  more  cluster  around  the  word 
democracy. 

What  is  the  import  of  the  word  as  applied  to 
literature  ?  How  far  will  it  carry  in  this  field  ? 
Is  the  democratic  movement  favorable  or  unfavorable 
to  the  growth  of  true  literature  ?  It  has  been  often 


DEMOCRACY  AND  LITERATURE  153 

said  that  literature  is  essentially  aristocratic;  that 
is,  I  suppose,  that  it  implies  a  degree  of  excellence, 
a  kind  of  excellence,  quite  beyond  the  appreciation 
of  the  masses.  This  is  no  doubt  in  a  measure  true, 
and  always  has  been  true.  While  the  mass  of  the 
people  are  not  good  offhand  judges  of  the  best  litera 
ture,  it  is  equally  true  that  great  literature  —  litera 
ture  that  has  breadth  and  power,  like  the  English 
Bible  or  like  Bunyan,  and  many  other  books  that 
transcend  the  sphere  of  mere  letters  —  makes  its 
way  more  or  less  among  the  people.  The  highest 
ideals  in  any  sphere  can  never  draw  the  many  ;  yet 
the  few,  the  elect  who  are  drawn  by  them,  are  prob 
ably  just  as  sure  to  appear  in  a  democracy  as  in  an 
oligarchy. 

To  some  readers  democracy  in  literature  seems  to 
suggest  only  an  incursion  of  the  loud,  the  vulgar, 
the  cheap  and  meretricious.  Apparently  it  suggests 
only  these  things  to  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  whose 
volume  "  Questions  at  Issue  "  contains  an  essay 
upon  this  subject. 

Mr.  Gosse  congratulates  the  guild  of  letters  that 
the  summits  of  literature  have  not  yet  been  sub 
merged  by  the  flood  of  democracy.  The  standards 
have  not  been  lowered  in  obedience  to  the  popular 
taste. 

But  Mr.  Gosse  thinks  the  social  revolution  or 
evolution  now  imminent  will  require  a  new  species 
of  poetry,  that  this  poetry  will  be  democratic  to  a 
degree  at  present  unimaginable,  though  just  what  it 
is  to  be  democratic  in  poetry  is  not  very  clear  to 


154  LITERARY   VALUES 

him.  He  says  :  "  The  aristocratic  tradition  is  still 
paramount  in  all  art.  Kings,  princesses,  and  the 
symbols  of  chivalry  are  as  essential  to  poetry,  as  we 
now  conceive  it,  as  roses,  stars,  or  nightingales,"  and 
he  does  not  see  what  will  be  left  if  this  romantic 
phraseology  is  done  away  with.  We  shall  certainly 
have  left  what  we  had  before  these  types  and  sym 
bols  came  into  vogue,  —  nature,  life,  man,  God.  If 
out  of  these  things  we  cannot  supply  ourselves  with 
new  types  and  values,  then  certainly  we  shall  be 
hard  put. 

The  critic  cites  the  popularity  of  Tennyson  as 
an  illustration  of  the  influence  of  literature  upon 
democracy  rather  than  of  democracy  upon  literature. 
It  is  true  that  Tennyson  was  not'  begotten  by  the 
democratic  spirit,  but  by  the  old  feudal  spirit ;  to 
him  the  people  was  but  a  hundred-headed  beast,  and 
his  temper  toward  this  beast,  if  reports  are  true, 
was  anything  but  democratic.  Tennyson  was  of 
the  haughty,  exclusive,  lordly  Norman  spirit,  and 
his  popularity  simply  showed  how  widespread  the 
appreciation  of  literary  excellence  may  become  in 
democratic  times. 

Of  course  universal  suffrage  is  of  slight  import 
in  literature :  not  by  the  vote  of  the  many,  but  by 
the  judgment  of  the  few,  are  the  true  standards  up 
held.  The  novels  that  sell  by  the  hundred  thou 
sand  will  not  be  the  best,  or  even  the  second  or 
third  best,  and  their  great  vogue  only  indicates  that 
the  diffusion  of  education  has  enormously  enlarged 
the  reading  public,  and  that  in  democratic  times,  as 


DEMOCRACY  AND  LITERATURE  155 

in  all  other  times,  there  never  has  been  and  probably 
never  will  be  enough  good  taste  to  go  around. 

Democracy,  as  it  affects,  or  should  affect,  litera 
ture,  no  more  means  a  lowering  of  the  standard  of 
excellence  than  it  means  a  lowering  of  the  standards 
in  science,  or  in  art,  or  in  farming  or  engineering 
or  ship-building,  or  in  the  art  of  living  itself.  It 
means  a  lifting  up  of  the  average,  with  the  great 
prizes,  the  high  ideals,  as  attractive  and  as  difficult 
as  ever.  Because  the  people  are  crude  and  run  for 
the  moment  after  the  cheap  and  meretricious,  we  are 
not  therefore  to  infer  that  the  cheap  and  meretricious 
will  permanently  content  them.  Democracy  in  litera 
ture,  as  exemplified  by  the  two  great  modern  demo 
crats  in  letters,  Whitman  and  Tolstoi,  means  a  new 
and  more  deeply  religious  way  of  looking  at  man 
kind,  as  well  as  at  all  the  facts  and  objects  of  the 
visible  world.  It  means,  furthermore,  the  finding 
of  new  artistic  motives  and  values  in  the  people,  in 
science  and  the  modern  spirit,  in  liberty,  fraternity, 
equality,  in  the  materialism  and  industrialism  of 
man's  life  as  we  know  it  in  our  day  and  land,  —  the 
carrying  into  imaginative  fields  the  quality  of  com 
mon  humanity,  that  which  it  shares  with  real  things 
and  with  all  open-air  nature,  with  hunters,  farmers, 
sailors,  and  real  workers  in  all  fields. 

The  typical  democratic  poet  will  hold  and  wield 
his  literary  and  artistic  endowment  as  a  common, 
everyday  man,  the  brother  and  equal  of  all,  and 
never  for  a  moment  as  the  man  of  exceptional  parts 
and  advantages,  exclusive  and  aloof.  His  poems 


156  LITERARY   VALUES 

will  imply  a  great  body  of  humanity  —  the  masses, 
the  toilers  —  and  will  carry  into  emotional  and  ideal 
fields  the  atmosphere  of  these. 

Behold  the  artistic  motives  furnished  by  feudal 
ism,  by  royalty,  by  lords  and  ladies,  by  the  fears 
and  superstitions  of  the  past,  by  mythology  and 
ecclesiasticism,  by  religious  and  political  terrorism 
in  all  their  manifold  forms.  Art  and  literature 
have  lived  upon  these  things  for  ages.  Can  demo 
cracy,  can  the  worth  and  picturesqueness  of  the  peo 
ple,  furnish  no  worthy  themes  and  motives  for  the 
poets  ?  Can  science,  can  the  present  day,  can  the 
religion  of  humanity,  the  conquest  of  nature's  forces, 
inspire  no  poetic  enthusiasm  and  give  rise  to  great 
art  rivaling  that  of  the  past  ?  As  between  the  past 
and  the  present,  undoubtedly  the  difficulty  is  not 
in  the  poverty  of  the  material  of  to-day,  but  in  the 
inadequacy  of  the  man.  It  requires  a  great  spirit, 
a  powerful  personality,  to  master  and  absorb  the 
diverse  and  complex  elements  of  our  time  and  imbue 
them  with  poetic  enthusiasm. 

The  humanitarian  enthusiasm  as  a  motif  in  liter 
ature  and  art,  —  the  inspiration  begotten  by  the  con 
templation  of  the  wrongs,  the  sufferings,  and  the 
hopes  of  the  people,  —  undoubtedly  came  in  with 
democracy.  It  was  quite  unknown  to  the  ancient 
and  to  the  feudal  world.  To  all  the  more  vital  voices 
of  our  time  this  enthusiasm  gives  the  tone.  How 
pronounced  it  is  in  two  of  our  latest  and  most 
promising  poets,  Mr.  Edwin  Markham  and  Mr.  Wil 
liam  Vaughn  Moody  ! 


DEMOCRACY  AND   LITERATURE  157 

It  is  hard  to  shake  off  the  conviction  that  the  old 
order  of  things  had  the  advantage  of  picturesque- 
ness.  Is  it  because  it  is  so  hard  to  free  ourselves 
from  the  illusions  of  time  and  distance  ?  Charm, 
enticement,  dwell  with  the  remote,  the  unfamiliar. 
The  now,  the  here,  are  vulgar  and  commonplace. 
We  find  it  hard  to  realize  that  the  great  deeds  were 
done  on  just  such  a  day  as  this,  and  that  the  actors 
in  them  were  just  such  men  as  we  see  about  us. 
Then  the  days  of  one's  youth  seem  strange  and 
incredible ;  how  different  their  light  from  this  hard, 
prosy  glare !  Our  distrust  of  our  own  day  and  land 
as  furnishing  suitable  material  for  poetry  and  ro 
mance  doubtless  springs  largely  from  this  illusion. 

At  the  same  time,  a  mechanical  and  industrial 
age  like  ours  no  doubt  offers  a  harder  problem  to  the 
imaginative  producer  than  the  ages  of  faith  and  fa 
naticism  of  the  past.  The  steam  whistle,  the  type  of 
our  civilization,  what  can  the  poet  make  of  it  ?  The 
clank  of  machinery,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  less  in 
spiring  than  the  clash  of  arms ;  the  railroad  is  less 
pleasing  to  look  upon  than  the  highway,  because  it 
is  more  arbitrary  and  mechanical.  In  the  same  way, 
the  steamship  seems  unrelated  to  the  great  forces 
and  currents  of  the  globe.  Yet  to  put  these  things 
in  poetry  only  requires  time,  only  requires  a  more 
complete  adjustment  of  our  lives  to  them,  and  hence 
the  proper  vista  and  association.  As  is  always  the 
case,  it  is  a  question  of  the  man  and  not  of  the  ma 
terial.  Goethe  said  to  Eckermann,  "Our  German 
sesthetical  people  are  always  talking  about  poetical 


158  LITERARY  VALUES 

and  unpbetical  objects,  and  in  one  respect  they  are 
not  quite  wrong  ;  yet  at  bottom  no  real  object  is 
unpoetical,  if  the  poet  knows  how  to  use  it  pro 
perly," —  if  he  can  throw  enough  feeling  into  it. 
I  lately  read  a  poem  by  one  of  our  younger  poets  on 
an  entirely  modern  theme,  the  building  of  the  rail 
road,  —  the  gang  of  men  cutting  through  hills,  tun 
neling  mountains,  filling  valleys,  bridging  chasms, 
etc.  But,  though  vividly  described,  it  did  not  quite 
reach  the  poetical ;  it  lacked  the  personal  and  the 
human ;  it  was  realistic  without  the  freeing  touch 
of  the  idealistic.  Some  story,  some  interest,  some 
enthusiasm  overarching  it,  would  have  supplied  an 
atmosphere  that  was  lacking.  We  cannot  be  perma 
nently  interested  in  the  gigantic  or  in  sheer  brute 
power  unless  they  are  in  some  way  related  to  life 
and  its  aspirations.  The  battle  of  man  with  man  is 
more  interesting  than  the  battle  of  man  with  rocks 
and  chasms,  because  men  can  strike  back,  and  vic 
tory  is  not  to  be  had  on  such  easy  terms. 

The  same  objection  cannot  be  urged  against  Mr. 
William  Vaughn  Moody's  poem  on  the  steam  en 
gine,  which  he  treats  under  the  figure  of  "  The 
Brute,"  —  a  poem  of  great  imaginative  power  in 
which  the  human  interest  is  constantly  paramount. 
The  still  small  voice  of  humanity  is  always  heard 
through  the  Brute's  roar,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  first 
stanza  :  — 

"  Through  his  might  men  work  their  wills; 

They  have  boweled  out  the  hills 
For  food  to  keep  him  toiling  in  the  cages  they  have  wrought ; 


DEMOCRACY   AND   LITERATURE  159 

And  they  fling  him  hour  by  hour 
Limbs  of  men  to  give  him  power, 

Brains  of  men  to  give  him  cunning;  and  for  dainties  to  devour 
Children's  souls,  the  little  worth;    hearts  of  women,    cheaply 

bought. 

He  takes  them  and  he  breaks  them,  but  he  gives  them  scanty 
thought." 

Quite  different  is  the  treatment  of  "  The  Light 
ning  Express  "  by  a  western  poet,  Mr.  J.  P.  Irvine, 
yet  the  poetic  note  is  clearly  and  surely  struck  in 
his  stanzas  too  :  — 

"  In  storm  and  darkness,  night  and  day, 
Through  mountain  gorge  or  level  way, 
With  lightening  rein  and  might  unspent, 
And  head  erect  in  scorn  of  space, 
Holds,  neck-and-neck,  with  time  a  race, 
Flame-girt  across  a  continent. 

Think  not  of  danger;  every  wheel 
Of  all  that  clank  and  roll  below 
Rings  singing  answers,  steel  for  steel, 
Beneath  the  hammer's  testing  blow; 
And  what  though  fields  go  swirling  round, 
And  backward  swims  the  mazy  ground, 
So  swift  the  herds  seem  standing  still, 
As  scared  they  dash  from  hill  to  hill ; 
And  though  the  brakes  may  grind  to  fire 
The  gravel  as  they  grip  the  tire 
And  holding,  strike  a  startling  vein 
Of  tremor  through  the  surging  train, 
The  hand  of  him  who  guides  the  rein 
Is  all-controlling  and  intent; 
Fear  not,  although  the  race  you  ride 
Is  on  the  whirlwind,  side  by  side, 
With  time  across  a  continent." 

What  are  the  sources  of  the  interesting  in  life  ? 
Novelty  is  one,  but  it  is  short-lived  ;  beauty  and  sub 
limity  are  others,  and  are  more  lasting.  But  the 
main  source  of  the  interesting  is  human  association. 


160  LITERARY    VALUES 

The  landscape  that  is  written  over  with  human  his 
tory,  how  it  holds  us  and  draws  us  !  All  phases  of 
modern  industrial  life  —  the  miner,  the  lumberman, 
the  road-builder,  the  engineer,  the  factory-hand,  are 
available  for  poetic  treatment  to  him  who  can  bring 
the  proper  fund  of  human  association,  who  can  make 
the  human  element  in  these  things  paramount  over 
the  mechanical  element.  The  more  of  nature  you  get 
in,  the  more  the  picture  has  a  background  of  earth 
and  sky,  or  of  great  human  passions  and  heroisms, 
the  more  the  imagination  is  warmed  and  moved. 
The  railroad  is  itself  a  blotch  upon  the  earth,  but  it 
has  a  mighty  background.  In  itself  it  is  at  war 
with  every  feature  of  the  landscape  it  passes  through ; 
it  stains  the  snows,  it  befouls  the  water,  it  poisons 
the  air,  it  smuts  the  grass  and  the  foliage,  it  expels 
the  peace  and  the  quiet,  it  puts  to  rout  every  rural 
divinity.  It  adapts  itself  to  nothing  ;  it  is  as  arbi 
trary  as  a  cyclone  and  as  killing  as  a  pestilence. 
Yet  a  train  of  cars  thundering  through  storm  and 
darkness,  racing  with  winds  and  clouds,  is  a  sub 
lime  object  to  contemplate  ;  it  is  sublime  because 
of  its  triumph  over  time  and  space,  and  because  of 
the  danger  and  dread  that  compass  it  about.  It  has 
a  tremendous  human  background.  The  body-kill 
ing  and  soul-blighting  occupations  peculiar  to  our 
civilization  are  not  of  themselves  suggestive  of  po 
etic  thoughts  ;  but  if  Dante  made  poetry  out  of  hell, 
would  not  a  nature  copious  and  powerful  enough 
make  poetry  out  of  the  vast  and  varied  elements  of 
our  materialistic  civilization  ? 


VIII 

POETRY  AND    ELOQUENCE 


W 


'HEBE  does  eloquence  end,  where  does  poetry 
begin  ?  "  inquires  Eenan  in  his  "  Future  of 
Science."  And  he  goes  on  to  say,  "  The  whole  dif 
ference  lies  in  a  peculiar  harmony,  in  a  more  or  less 
sonorous  ring,  with  regard  to  which  an  experienced 
faculty  never  hesitates." 

Is  not  the  "  sonorous  ring,"  however,  more  charac 
teristic  of  eloquence  than  of  poetry  ?  Poetry  does 
begin  where  eloquence  ends ;  it  is  a  higher  and  finer 
harmony.  Nearly  all  men  feel  the  power  of  elo 
quence,  but  poetry  does  not  sway  the  multitude ;  it 
does  not  sway  at  all,  —  it  lifts,  and  illuminates,  and 
soothes.  It  reaches  the  spirit,  while  eloquence  stops 
with  the  reason  and  the  emotions. 

Eloquence  is  much  the  more  palpable,  real,  avail 
able  ;  it  is  a  wind  that  fills  every  sail  and  makes 
every  mast  bend,  while  poetry  is  a  breeze  touched 
with  a  wild  perfume  from  field  or  Wood.  Poetry  is 
consistent  with  perfect  tranquillity  of  spirit ;  a  true 
poem  may  have  the  calm  of  a  summer  day,  the  pla 
cidity  of  a  mountain  lake,  but  eloquence  is  a  torrent, 
a  tempest,  mass  in  motion,  an  army  with  banners,  the 
burst  of  a  hundred  instruments  of  music.  Tenny 
son's  "  Maud  "  is  a  notable  blending  of  the  two. 


162  LITERARY    VALUES 

There  is  something  martial  in  eloquence,  the  roll 
of  the  drum,  the  cry  of  the  fife,  the  wheel  and  flash 
of  serried  ranks.  Its  end  is  action  ;  it  shapes  events, 
it  takes  captive  the  reason  and  the  understanding. 
Its  basis  is  earnestness,  vehemence,  depth  of  convic 
tion. 

There  is  no  eloquence  without  heat,  and  no  po 
etry  without  light.  An  earnest  man  is  more  or  less 
an  eloquent  man.  Eloquence  belongs  to  the  world 
of  actual  affairs  and  events  ;  it  is  aroused  by  great 
wrongs  and  great  dangers,  it  flourishes  in  the  forum 
and  the  senate.  Poetry  is  more  private  and  personal, 
is  more  for  the  soul  and  the  religious  instincts ;  it 
courts  solitude  and  wooes  the  ideal. 

Anything  swiftly  told  or  described,  the  sense  of 
speed  and  volume,  is,  or  approaches,  eloquence ; 
while  anything  heightened  and  deepened,  any  mean 
ing  and  beauty  suddenly  revealed,  is,  or  approaches, 
poetry.  Hume  says  of  the  eloquence  of  Demosthe 
nes,  "  It  is  rapid  harmony,  exactly  adjusted  to  the 
sense.  It  is  vehement  reasoning  without  any  ap 
pearance  of  art ;  it  is  disdain,  anger,  boldness,  free 
dom,  involved  in  a  continual  stream  of  argument." 

The  passions  of  eloquence  and  poetry  differ  in  this 
respect ;  one  is  reason  inflamed,  the  other  is  imagi 
nation  kindled. 

Any  object  of  magnitude  in  swift  motion,  a  horse 
at  the  top  of  his  speed,  a  regiment  of  soldiers  on  the 
double  quick,  a  train  of  cars  under  full  way,  moves 
us  in  a  way  that  the  same  object  at  rest  does  not. 
The  great  secret  of  eloquence  is  to  set  mass  in  mo- 


POETRY   AND   ELOQUENCE  163 

tion,  to  marshal  together  facts  and  considerations, 
imbue  them  with  passion,  and  hurl  them  like  an 
army  on  the  charge  upon  the  mind  of  the  reader  or 
hearer. 

The  pleasure  we  derive  from  eloquence  is  more 
acute,  more  physiological,  I  might  say,  more  of  the 
blood  and  animal  spirits,  than  our  pleasure  from  po 
etry.  I  imagine  it  was  almost  a  dissipation  to  have 
heard  a  man  like  Father  Taylor.  One's  feelings  and 
emotions  were  all  out  of  their  banks  like  the  creeks 
in  spring.  But  this  was  largely  the  result  of  his 
personal  magnetism  and  vehemence  of  utterance. 

The  contrast  between  eloquent  prose  and  poetic 
prose  would  be  more  to  the  point.  The  pleasure 
from  each  is  precious  and  genuine,  but  our  pleasure 
from  the  latter  is  no  doubt  more  elevated  and  endur 
ing. 

Gibbon's  prose  is  often  eloquent,  never  poetical. 
Kuskin's  prose  is  at  times  both,  though  his  tempera 
ment  is  not  that  of  the  orator.  There  is  more  ca 
price  than  reason  in  him.  The  prose  of  De  Quincey 
sometimes  has  the  "  sonorous  ring"  of  which  Eenan 
speaks.  The  following  passage  from  his  essay  on 
"  The  Philosophy  of  Eoman  History  "  is  a  good  sam 
ple:  — 

"  The  battle  of  Actium  was  followed  by  the  final 
conquest  of  Egypt.  That  conquest  rounded  and  in 
tegrated  the  glorious  empire  ;  it  was  now  circular  as 
a  shield,  orbicular  as  the  disk  of  a  planet ;  the  great 
Julian  arch  was  now  locked  into  the  cohesion  of 
granite  by  its  last  keystone.  From  that  day  forward, 


1G4  LITERARY   VALUES 

for  three  hundred  years,  there  was  silence  in  the 
world ;  no  muttering  was  heard  ;  no  eye  winked  be 
neath  the  wing.  Winds  of  hostility  might  still  rave 
at  intervals,  but  it  was  on  the  outside  of  the  mighty 
empire,  it  was  at  a  dreamlike  distance ;  and,  like 
the  storms  that  beat  against  some  monumental  castle, 
'  and  at  the  doors  and  windows  seem  to  call/  they 
rather  irritated  and  vivified  the  sense  of  security, 
than  at  all  disturbed  its  luxurious  lull." 

Contrast  with  this  a  passage  from  Emerson's  first 
prose  work,  "  Nature,"  wherein  the  poetic  element 
is  more  conspicuous  :  — 

"  The  poet,  the  orator,  bred  in  the  woods,  whose 
senses  have  been  nourished  by  their  fair  and  appeas 
ing  changes,  year  after  year,  without  design  and 
without  heed,  shall  not  lose  their  lesson  altogether, 
in  the  roar  of  cities  or  the  broil  of  politics.  Long 
hereafter,  amidst  agitation  and  terror  in  national 
councils,  —  in  the  hour  of  revolution,  —  these  sol 
emn  images  shall  reappear  in  their  morning  lustre, 
as  fit  symbols  and  words  of  the  thoughts  which  the 
passing  events  shall  awaken.  At  the  call  of  a  noble 
sentiment,  again  the  woods  wave,  the  pines  murmur, 
the  river  rolls  and  shines,  and  the  cattle  low  upon 
the  mountains,  as  he  saw  and  heard  them  in  his  in 
fancy.  And  with  these  forms,  the  spells  of  persua 
sion,  the  keys  of  power  are  put  into  his  hands." 

Or  this  passage  from  Carlyle's  "  French  Revolu 
tion,"  shall  we  call  it  eloquent  prose  or  poetic  prose  ? 

"In  this  manner,  however,  has  the  Day  bent 
downwards.  Wearied  mortals  are  creeping  home 


POETRY   AND   ELOQUENCE  165 

from  their  field  labors ;  the  village  artisan  eats  with 
relish  his  supper  of  herbs,  or  has  strolled  forth  to  the 
village  street  for  a  sweet  mouthful  of  air  and  human 
news.  Still  summer  eventide  everywhere!  The 
great  sun  hangs  flaming  on  the  uttermost  northwest ; 
for  it  is  his  longest  day  this  year.  The  hilltops,  re 
joicing,  will  ere  long  be  at  their  ruddiest,  and  blush 
good-night.  The  thrush  in  green  dells,  on  long- 
shadowed  leafy  spray,  pours  gushing  his  glad  sere 
nade,  to  the  babble  of  brooks  grown  audible  ;  silence 
is  stealing  over  the  Earth. " 

What  noble  eloquence  in  Tacitus  !  Indeed,  elo 
quence  was  natural  to  the  martial  and  world-subdu 
ing  Eoman  ;  but  his  poetry  is  for  the  most  part  of  a 
secondary  order.  It  is  often  said  of  French  poetry 
that  it  is  more  eloquent  than  poetic.  Of  English 
poetry  the  reverse  is  probably  true,  though  of  such 
a  poet  as  Byron  it  seems  to  me  that  eloquence  is  the 
chief  characteristic. 

Byron  never,  to  my  notion,  touches  the  deeper 
and  finer  poetic  chords.  He  is  witty,  he  is  brilliant, 
he  is  eloquent,  but  is  he  ever  truly  poetical  ?  He 
stirs  the  blood,  he  kindles  the  fancy,  but  does  he 
ever  diffuse  through  the  soul  the  joy  and  the  light 
of  pure  poetry  ?  Goethe  expressed  almost  un 
bounded  admiration  for  Byron,  yet  admitted  that  he 
was  too  worldly-minded,  and  that  a  great  deal  of  his 
poetry  should  have  been  fired  off  in  Parliament  in 
the  shape  of  parliamentary  speeches.  Wordsworth, 
on  the  other  hand,  when  he  was  not  prosy  and  heavy, 
was  poetical ;  he  was  never  eloquent. 


166  LITERARY   VALUES 

A  fine  sample  of  eloquence  in  poetry  is  Browning's 
"  How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to 
Aix."  Of  its  kind  there  is  nothing  in  the  language 
to  compare  with  it.  One  needs  to  read  such  a  piece 
occasionally  as  a  moral  sanitary  measure ;  it  aerates 
his  emotions  as  a  cataract  does  a  creek.  Scott's 
highest  excellence  as  a  poet  is  his  eloquence.  The 
same  is  true  of  Macaulay  and  of  Campbell,  though 
the  latter's  "  To  the  Eainbow  "  breathes  the  spirit 
of  true  poetry. 

Among  our  own  poets  Halleck's  "  Marco  Bozzaris  " 
thrills  us  with  its  fiery  eloquence.  Dr.  Holmes's 
"  Old  Ironsides  "  also  is  just  what  such  a  poem  should 
be,  just  what  the  occasion  called  for,  a  rare  piece  of 
rhymed  eloquence. 

Eloquence  is  so  good,  so  refreshing,  it  is  such  a 
noble  and  elevating  excitement,  that  one  would  fain 
have  more  of  it,  even  in  poetry.  It  is  too  rare  and 
precious  a  product  to  be  valued  lightly. 

Here  is  a  brief  example  of  Byron's  eloquence  :  — 

"There,  where  death's  brief  pang  was  quickest, 
And  the  battle's  wreck  lay  thickest, 
Strewed  beneath  the  advancing  banner 
Of  the  eagles'  burning  crest,  — 
There  with  thunder-clouds  to  fan  her 
Victory  beaming  from  her  breast! 
While  the  broken  line  enlarging 
Fell,  or  fled  along  the  plain;  — 
There  be  sure  Murat  was  charging! 
There  he  ne'er  shall  charge  again! " 

This  from  Tennyson  is  of  another  order :  — 

"  Thy  voice  is  heard  through  rolling  drums 
That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands  ; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  conies, 
And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands: 


POETKY  AND   ELOQUENCE  167 

A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 
He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee; 
The  next,  like  fire,  he  meets  the  foe, 
And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee." 

The  chief  value  of  all  patriotic  songs  and  poems, 
like  Mrs.  Howe's  "  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Kepublic," 
or  Mr.  Stedman's  John  Brown  poem,  or  KandalFs 
"  Maryland/7  or  Burns' s  "  Bannnoekburn,"  or  Whit 
man's  "  Beat !  Beat !  Drums,"  is  their  impassioned 
eloquence.  Patriotism,  war,  wrong,  slavery,  these 
are  the  inspirers  of  eloquence. 

Of  course  no  sharp  line  can  be  drawn  between 
eloquence  and  poetry  ;  they  run  together,  they  blend 
in  all  first-class  poems  ;  yet  there  is  a  wide  difference 
between  the  two,  and  it  is  probably  in  the  direction 
I  have  indicated.  Power  and  mastery  in  either  field 
are  the  most  precious  of  human  gifts. 


IX 

GILBERT  WHITE  AGAIN 

of  the  few  books  which  I  can  return  to 
and  re-read  every  six  or  seven  years  is  Gilbert 
White's  Selborne.  It  has  a  perennial  charm.  It  is 
much  like  country  things  themselves.  One  does  not 
read  it  with  excitement  or  eager  avidity  ;  it  is  in  a 
low  key  ;  it  touches  only  upon  minor  matters ;  it  is 
not  eloquent,  or  witty,  or  profound  ;  it  has  only  now 
and  then  a  twinkle  of  humor  or  a  glint  of  fancy, 
and  yet  it  has  lived  an  hundred  years  and  promises 
to  live  many  hundreds  of  years  more.  So  many 
learned  and  elaborate  treatises  have  sunk  beneath 
the  waves  upon  which  this  cockle-shell  of  a  book 
rides  so  safely  and  buoyantly !  What  is  the  secret 
of  its  longevity  ?  One  can  do  little  more  than 
name  its  qualities  without  tracing  them  to  their 
sources.  It  is  simple  and  wholesome,  like  bread,  or 
meat,  or  milk.  Perhaps  it  is  just  this  same  unstrained 
quality  that  keeps  the  book  alive.  Books  that  are 
piquant  and  exciting  like  condiments,  or  cloying 
like  confectionery  or  pastry,  it  seems,  have  much 
less  chance  of  survival.  The  secret  of  longevity  of 
a  man  —  what  is  it  ?  Sanity,  moderation,  regular 
ity,  and  that  plus  vitality,  which  is  a  gift.  Tho 


GILBERT   WHITE  AGAIN  169 

book  that  lives  has  these  things,  and  it  has  that 
same  plus  vitality,  the  secret  of  which  cannot  be  ex 
plored.  The  sensational,  intemperate  books  set  the 
world  on  fire  for  a  day,  and  then  end  in  ashes  and 
forgetfulness.  , 

White's  book  diffuses  a  sort  of  rural  England  at 
mosphere  through  the  mind.  It  is  not  the  work  of 
a  city  man  who  went  down  into  the  country  to  write 
it  up,  but  of  a  born  countryman,  —  one  who  had  in 
the  very  texture  of  his  mind  the  flavor  of  rural  things. 
Then  it  is  the  growth  of  a  particular  locality.  Let 
a  man  stick  his  staff  into  the  ground  anywhere  and 
say,  "  This  is  home,"  and  describe  things  from 
that  point  of  view,  or  as  they  stand  related  to  that 
spot,  —  the  weather,  the  fauna,  the  flora,  —  and  his 
account  shall  have  an  interest  to  us  it  could  not 
have  if  not  thus  located  and  defined.  This  is  one 
secret  of  White's  charm.  His  work  has  a  home  air, 
a  certain  privacy  and  particularity.  The  great  world  is 
afar  off ;  Selborne  is  as  snug  and  secluded  as  a  chim 
ney  corner ;  we  get  an  authentic  glimpse  into  the 
real  life  of  one  man  there ;  we  see  him  going  about 
intent,  lovingly  intent,  upon  every  phase  of  nature 
about  him.  We  get  glimpses  into  humble  cottages 
and  into  the  ways  and  doings  of  the  people ;  we  see 
the  bacon  drying  in  the  chimneys  ;  we  see  the  poor 
gathering  in  Wolmer  Forest  the  sticks  and  twigs 
dropped  by  the  rooks  in  building  their  nests  ;  we 
see  them  claiming  the  "  lop  and  top  "  when  the 
big  trees  are  cut.  Indeed,  the  human  touches,  the 
human  figures  here  and  there  in  White's  pages,  add 


170  LITERARY  VALUES 

much  to  the  interest.  The  glimpses  we  get  of  his 
own  goings  and  comings  —  we  wish  there  were  more 
of  them.  We  should  like  to  know  what  took  him 
to  London  during  that  great  snowstorm  of  January, 
1776,  and  how  he  got  there,  inasmuch  as  the  roads 
were  so  blocked  by  the  snow  that  the  carriages  from 
Bath  with  their  fine  ladies  on  their  way  to  attend 
the  Queen's  birthday,  were  unable  to  get  through. 
"  The  ladies  fretted,  and  offered  large  rewards  to 
labourers  if  they  would  shovel  them  a  track  to  Lon 
don,  but  the  relentless  heaps  of  snow  were  too  bulky 
to  be  removed."  The  parson  found  the  city  bedded 
deep  in  snow,  and  so  noiseless  by  reason  of  it  that 
"  it  seemed  to  convey  an  uncomfortable  idea  of  de 
solation." 

When  one  reads  the  writers  of  our  own  day  upon 
rural  England  and  the  wild  life  there,  he  finds  that 
they  have  not  the  charm  of  the  Selborne  naturalist ; 
mainly,  I  think,  because  they  go  out  with  deliberate 
intent  to  write  up  nature.  They  choose  their  theme  ; 
the  theme  does  not  choose  them.  They  love  the 
birds  and  flowers  for  the  literary  effects  they  can 
produce  out  of  them.  It  requires  no  great  talent  to 
go  out  in  the  fields  or  woods  and  describe  in  grace 
ful  sentences  what  one  sees  there,  —  birds,  trees, 
flowers,  clouds,  streams ;  but  to  give  the  atmosphere 
of  these  things,  to  seize  the  significant  and  interest 
ing  features  and  to  put  the  reader  into  sympathetic 
communication  with  them,  that  is  another  matter. 

Hence  back  of  all,  the  one  thing  that  has  told 
most  in  keeping  White's  book  alive  is  undoubtedly 


GILBERT  WHITE   AGAIN  171 

its  sound  style  —  sentences  actually  filled  with  the 
living  breath  of  a  man.  We  are  everywhere  face  to 
face  with  something  genuine  and  real ;  objects,  ideas, 
stand  out  on  the  page ;  the  articulation  is  easy  and 
distinct.  White  had  no  literary  ambitions.  His 
style  is  that  of  a  scholar,  but  of  a  scholar  devoted  to 
natural  knowledge.  There  was  evidently  something 
winsome  and  charming  about  the  man  personally, 
and  these  qualities  reappear  in  his  pages. 

He  was  probably  a  parson  who  made  as  many 
calls  afield  as  in  the  village,  if  not  more.  An  old 
nurse  in  his  family  said  of  him,  fifty  years  after  his 
death,  "  He  was  a  still,  quiet  body,  and  that  there 
was  not  a  bit  of  harm  in  him." 

White  was  a  type  of  the  true  observer,  the  man 
with  the  detective  eye.  He  did  not  seek  to  read  his 
own  thoughts  and  theories  into  Nature,  but  sub 
mitted  his  mind  to  her  with  absolute  frankness  and 
ingenuousness.  He  had  infinite  curiosity,  and  de 
lighted  in  nothing  so  much  as  a  new  fact  about  the 
birds  and  the  wild  life  around  him.  To  see  the 
thing  as  it  was  in  itself  and  in  its  relations,  that  was 
his  ambition.  He  could  resist  the  tendency  of  his 
own  mind  to  believe  without  sufficient  evidence. 
Apparently  he  wanted  to  fall  in  with  the  notion  cur 
rent  during  the  last  century,  that  swallows  hiber 
nated  in  the  mud  in  the  bottoms  of  streams  and 
ponds,  but  he  could  not  gather  convincing  proof.  It 
was  not  enough  that  a  few  belated  specimens  were 
seen  in  the  fall  lingering  about  such  localities,  or 
again  hovering  over  them  early  in  spring ;  or  that 


172  LITERARY   VALUES 

some  old  grandfather  had  seen  a  man  who  had  taken 
live  swallows  out  of  the  mud.  Produce  the  man 
and  let  us  cross-question  him,  —  that  was  White's 
attitude.  Dr.  Johnson  said  confidently  that  swal 
lows  did  thus  pass  the  winter  in  the  mud  "  conglob- 
ulated  into  a  ball/'  but  Johnson  had  that  literary 
cast  of  mind  that  prefers  a  picturesque  statement  to 
the  exact  fact.  White  was  led  astray  by  no  literary 
ambition.  His  interest  in  the  life  of  nature  was 
truly  a  scientific  one  ;  he  must  know  the  fact  first, 
and  then  give  it  to  the  humanities.  How  true  it  is 
in  science,  in  literature,  in  life,  that  any  secondary 
motive  vitiates  the  result !  Seek  ye  the  kingdom  of 
truth  first,  and  all  things  shall  be  added. 

But  White  seems  finally  to  have  persuaded  him 
self  that  at  least  a  few  swallows  passed  the  winter 
in  England  in  a  torpid  state  —  if  not  in  the  bottom 
of  streams  or  ponds,  then  in  holes  in  their  banks. 
He  reasoned  from  analogy,  though  he  had  expressed 
his  distrust  of  that  mode  of  reasoning.  If  bats,  in 
sects,  toads,  turtles,  and  other  creatures  can  thus 
pass  the  winter,  why  not  swallows  ?  On  many  dif 
ferent  occasions,  during  mild  days  late  in  the  fall 
and  early  in  the  spring,  he  saw  house-martins  flying 
about ;  the  weather  suddenly  changing  to  colder, 
they  quickly  disappeared.  Bats  and  turtles  came 
forth,  then  vanished  in  the  same  way.  White  finally 
concluded  that  the  mystery  was  the  same  in  both 
cases,  —  that  the  creatures  were  brought  from  their 
winter  retreats  by  the  warmth,  only  to  retire  to  them 
again  when  it  changed  to  cold.  If  he  had  adhered 


GILBERT   WHITE   AGAIN  173 

to  his  usual  caution  he  would  have  waited  for  actual 
proof  of  this  fact,  —  the  finding  of  a  torpid  swallow. 
He  made  frequent  search  for  such,  but  never  found 
any. 

This  notion  so  long  current  about  the  swallows 
probably  had  its  origin  in  two  things  :  first,  their 
partiality  for  mud  as  nesting  material  j  and  secondly, 
the  habit  of  these  birds,  after  they  have  begun  to 
collect  into  flocks  in  midsummer,  preparatory  to 
their  migrations,  of  passing  the  night  in  vast  numbers 
along  the  margins  of  streams  and  ponds.  White 
knew  of  their  habits  in  this  respect,  and  wanted  to 
see  in  the  fact  presumptive  evidence  of  the  truth  of 
the  notion  that,  though  they  may  not  retire  into 
the  water  itself,  yet  that  they  "  may  conceal  them 
selves  in  the  banks  of  pools  and  rivers  during  the  un 
comfortable  months  of  the  year."  One  midsummer 
twilight  in  northern  Vermont  I  came  upon  hundreds 
of  swallows  —  barn  and  cliff  —  settled  for  the  night 
upon  some  low  alders  that  grew  upon  the  margin 
of  a  deep,  still  pool  in  the  river.  The  bushes  bent 
down  with  them  as  with  an  over-load  of  fruit.  This 
attraction  for  the  water  on  the  part  of  the  swallow 
family  is  certainly  a  curious  one,  and  is  not  easily 
explained. 

Our  sharp-eyed  parson  had  observed  that  the 
nesting  habits  of  birds  afford  a  clue  to  their  roosting 
habits,  —  that  they  usually  pass  the  night  in  or  near 
those  places  where  they  build  their  nests.  Thus, 
the  tree-builders  roost  in  trees ;  the  ground-builders 
upon  the  ground.  I  have  seen  our  chickadee  and 


174  LITERARY   VALUES 

woodpecker  enter,  late  in  the  day,  the  cavities  in  de 
caying  limbs  of  trees.  I  have  seen  the  oriole  dis 
pose  of  herself  for  the  night  on  the  end  of  a  maple 
branch  where  her  "  pendent  bed  and  procreant 
cradle  "  was  begun  a  few  days  later.  In  walking 
through  the  summer  fields  in  the  twilight,  the  ves 
per  sparrow  or  the  song  sparrow  will  often  start  up 
from  almost  beneath  one's  feet.  It  is  said  that  the 
snow-bunting  will  plunge  beneath  the  snow  and 
pass  the  night  there.  The  ruffled  grouse  often  does 
this,  but  the  swallows  seem  to  be  an  exception  to 
this  rule.  I  have  seen  a  vast  cloud  of  swifts  take 
up  their  lodging  for  the  night  in  a  tall,  unused 
chimney  ;  but  the  barn  swallows  and  the  cliff  and  the 
white-bellied  swallows,  at  least  after  the  young  have 
flown,  appear  to  pass  the  night  in  the  vicinity  of 
streams.  White  noticed  also  —  and  here  the  true 
observer  again  crops  out  —  that  the  fieldfare,  a  kind 
of  thrush,  though  a  tree-builder,  always  appears  to 
pass  the  night  on  the  ground.  "  The  larkers,  in 
dragging  their  nets  by  night,  frequently  catch  them 
in  the  wheat  stubbles."  He  learned,  as  every  ob 
server  sooner  or  later  learns,  to  be  careful  of  sweep 
ing  statements,  —  that  the  truth  of  nature  is  not  al 
ways  caught  by  the  biggest  generalizations.  After 
speaking  of  the  birds  that  dust  themselves,  earth 
their  plumage  — pulveratrices,  as  he  calls  them  — 
he  says,  "  As  far  as  I  can  observe,  many  birds  that 
dust  themselves  never  wash,  and  I  once  thought  that 
those  birds  that  wash  themselves  would  never  dust ; 
but  here  I  find  myself  mistaken,"  and  he  instances  the 


GILBERT  WHITE  AGAIN  175 

house  sparrow  as  doing  both.  White  seems  to  have 
been  about  the  first  writer  upon  natural  history  who 
observed  things  minutely ;  he  saw  through  all  those 
sort  of  sleight-o'-hand  movements  and  ways  of  the 
birds  and  beasts.  He  held  his  eye  firmly  to  the 
point.  He  saw  the  swallows  feed  their  young  on  the 
wing ;  he  saw  the  fern-owl,  while  hawking  about  a 
large  oak,  "  put  out  its  short  leg  while  on  the  wing, 
and  by  a  bend  of  the  head  deliver  something  into 
its  mouth."  This  explained  to  him  the  use  of  its 
middle  toe,  "  which  is  curiously  furnished  with  a  ser 
rated  claw."  He  timed  the  white  owls  feeding  their 
young  under  the  eaves  of  his  church,  with  watch  in 
hand.  He  saw  them  transfer  the  mouse  they  brought, 
from  the  foot  to  the  beak,  that  they  might  have  the 
free  use  of  the  former  in  ascending  to  the  nest. 

In  his  walks  and  drives  about  the  country  he  was 
all  attention  to  the  life  about  him,  simply  from  his 
delight  in  any  fresh  bit  of  natural  knowledge.  His 
curiosity  never  flagged.  He  had  naturally  an  alert 
mind.  His  style  reflects  this  alertness  and  sensi 
tiveness.  In  his  earlier  days  he  was  an  enthusiastic 
sportsman,  and  he  carried  the  sportsman's  trained 
sense  and  love  of  the  chase  into  his  natural  history 
studies.  He  complained  that  faunists  were  too  apt 
to  content  themselves  with  general  terms  and  bare 
descriptions  ;  the  reason,  he  says,  is  plain,  —  "  be 
cause  all  that  may  be  done  at  home  in  a  man's 
study  ;  but  the  investigation  of  the  life  and  conversa 
tion  of  animals  is  a  concern  of  much  more  trouble 
and  difficulty,  and  is  not  to  be  attained  but  by  the 


176  LITERARY   VALUES 

active  and  inquisitive,  and  by  those  that  reside  much 
in  the  country."  He  himself  had  the  true  inquisi- 
tiveness  and  activity,  and  the  loving,  discriminating 
eye.  He  saw  the  specific  marks  and  differences  at  a 
glance.  Then,  his  love  of  these  things  was  so  well 
known  in  the  neighborhood,  that  this  kind  of  know 
ledge  flowed  to  him  from  all  sides.  He  was  a  magnet 
that  attracted  all  the  fresh  natural  lore  about  him. 
People  brought  him  birds  and  eggs  and  nests,  and 
animals  or  any  natural  curiosity,  and  reported  to  him 
any  unusual  occurrence.  They  loaned  him  the  use 
of  their  eyes  and  ears.  One  day  a  countryman  told 
him  he  had  found  a  young  fern-owl  in  the  nest  of 
a  small  bird  on  the  ground,  and  that  it  was  fed  by 
the  little  bird.  "  I  went  to  see  this  extraordinary 
phenomenon,  and  found  that  it  was  a  young  cuckoo 
hatched  in  the  nest  of  a  titlark ;  it  was  become' 
vastly  too  big  for  its  nest,  appearing  to  have  its  large 
wings  extended  beyond  the  nest, 

'  in  tenui  re 
Majores  pennas  nido  extendisse,' 

and  was  very  fierce  and  pugnacious,  pursuing  my 
finger,  as  I  teased  it,  for  many  feet  from  the  nest, 
and  sparring,  and  buffeting  with  its  wings  like  a 
gamecock.  The  dupe  of  a  dam  appeared  at  a  dis 
tance,  hovering  about  with  meat  in  its  mouth,  and 
expressing  the  greatest  solicitude.'7 

He  observed  that  the  train  of  the  peacock  was 
really  not  its  tail,  but  an  entirely  separate  append 
age.  He  remarked  how  extremely  fond  cats  are  of 
fish,  and  yet  of  all  quadrupeds  "  are  the  least  dis- 


GILBERT   WHITE  AGAIN  177 

posed  towards  the  water."  This  is  a  curious  fact  to 
him.  A  neighbor  of  his,  in  ploughing  late  in  the 
fall,  turned  a  water-rat  out  of  his  hibernaculum  in 
a  field  far  removed  from  any  water.  The  rat  had 
laid  up  more  than  a  gallon  of  potatoes  for  its  winter 
food.  This  was  another  curious  fact  that  set  the 
writer  speculating.  His  correspondent  tells  him  of 
a  heronry  near  some  manor-house  that  excites  his 
curiosity  much.  "  Fourscore  nests  of  such  a  bird  on 
one  tree  is  a  rarity  which  I  would  ride  half  as  many 
miles  to  get  a  sight  of.7'  Such  a  lively  curiosity  had 
the  parson.  His  thirst  for  exact  knowledge  was  so 
great  that  on  one  occasion  he  took  measurements  of 
the  carcass  of  a  moose  when  he  was  probably  com 
pelled  to  hold  his  nose  to  finish  the  task.  At  one 
place  he  heard  of  a  woman  who  professed  to  cure 
cancers  by  the  use  of  toads  ;  some  of  his  brother 
clergymen  believed  the  story,  but  when  he  came 
to  sift  the  evidence  he  made  up  his  mind  that  the 
woman  was  a  fraud. 

He  said  truly,  "  There  is  such  a  propensity  in 
mankind  towards  deceiving  and  being  deceived,  that 
one  cannot  safely  relate  anything  from  common  re 
port,  especially  in  print,  without  expressing  some 
degree  of  doubt  and  suspicion." 

The  observations  of  hardly  one  man  in  five  hun 
dred  are  of  any  value  for  scientific  purposes. 

White  had  the  true  scientific  caution,  and  was,  as 
a  rule,  very  careful  to  verify  his  statements. 

Of  course  the  science  of  White's  time  was  far  be 
hind  our  own.  The  phenomenon  of  the  weather,  for 


178  LITERARY   VALUES 

instance,  was  not  understood  then  as  it  is  now.  The 
great  atmospheric  waves  that  sweep  across  the  con 
tinents,  and  the  regular  alternations  of  heat  and  cold, 
were  unsuspected.  White  observed  that  cold  de 
scended  from  above,  but  he  thought  that  thaws  often 
originated  underground,  "  from  warm  vapours  which 
arise."  He  was  greatly  puzzled,  too,  when,  during 
the  severe  cold  of  December,  1784,  the  thermometer 
fell  many  degrees  lower  in  the  valley  bottoms  than 
on  the  hills.  He  had  not  observed  that  the  very 
cold  air  on  such  occasions  settles  down  into  the  val 
leys  and  fills  them  like  water,  marking  the  height  to 
which  it  rises  by  a  level  line  upon  the  trees  or  foliage. 
It  is  a  wonder  that  his  sharp  eye  did  not  detect 
the  true  source  of  honey  dew,  but  it  did  not.  He 
thought  it  proceeded  from  the  effluvia  of  flowers, 
which,  being  drawn  up  into  the  sky  by  the  warmth 
of  the  sun  by  day,  descended  again  as  dew  by  night. 

When  a  French  anatomist  announced  that  he  had 
discovered  why  the  cuckoo  did  not  hatch  its  own 
eggs, — namely,  because  the  crop  or  craw  of  the  bird 
was  placed  back  of  the  sternum,  so  as  to  make  a  pro 
tuberance  on  the  belly,  —  White  dissected  a  cuckoo 
for  himself,  and,  finding  the  fact  as  stated,  proceeded 
to  dissect  other  birds  that  he  knew  did  incubate,  as 
the  fern-owl  and  a  hawk,  and  finding  the  craw  situ 
ated  the  same  as  in  the  cuckoo,  justly  charged  the 
Frenchman  with  having  reached  an  unscientific 
conclusion. 

In  his  seventy-seventh  letter  White  clearly  antici 
pates  Darwin  as  to  the  beneficial  functions  of  earth 
worms  in  the  soil,  and  tells  farmers  and  gardeners 


GILBERT   WHITE   AGAIN  179 

that  the  little  creatures  which  they  look  upon  as 
their  enemies  are  really  their  best  friends. 

White  has  had  imitators,  but  no  successful  rivals. 
A  work  much  in  the  spirit  and  manner  of  his 
famous  book,  called  "  Jesse's  Gleanings  in  Natural 
History,"  was  published  fifty  years  later.  It  had 
some  reputation  in  its  own  day,  but  seems  to  be 
quite  forgotten  in  our  time.  A  good  reader  quickly 
sees  that  its  pages  have  not  the  same  fresh,  distinc 
tive  quality  as  White's,  not  the  same  atmosphere  of 
unconscious  curiosity  and  alert  interest.  They  are 
stamped  with  a  die  far  less  clear  and  individual. 
The  field  covered  is  the  same,  the  facts  and  incidents 
are  the  same,  but  the  medium  through  which  we  see 
them  all  is  not  the  same. 

The  following  extract  gives  a  fair  sample  of  the 
style  :  — 

"The  enjoyments  and  delights  of  a  country  life 
have  been  sung  by  poets  in  all  ages,  and  it  is  our 
own  fault  if  we  find  the  country  irksome,  or  less 
agreeable  than  a  crowded  metropolis.  It  affords 
many  resources  of  a  most  agreeable  nature,  to  those 
who  seek  for  rational  and  tranquil  enjoyments.  A 
beautiful  prospect,  a  walk  by  the  side  of  a  river  in 
fine  weather,  in  the  agreeable  shade  of  a  wood  or 
cool  valley,  have  great  charms  for  those  who  are 
fond  of  the  country.  We  may  then  exclaim  with 
Virgil,- 

'O,  qui  me  gelidis  convallibus  Haemi 
Sistat,  et  ingenti  ramorum  protegat  umbra ! '  " 

But  even  the  Virgilian  quotation  does  not  give  it 
the  flavor  of  White's  pages. 


LUCID  LITERATURE 

"YTOTHING  can  make  up  in  a  writer  for  the 
"*- *  want  of  lucidity.  It  is  one  of  the  cardinal 
literary  virtues.  If  the  page  is  not  clear,  if  we  see 
through  it  as  through  a  glass  darkly,  if  there  is  the 
least  blur  or  opacity,  the  work  to  that  extent  is  con 
demned.  It  is  a  false  notion  that  some  thoughts  or 
ideas  are  necessarily  obscure,  or  complex,  or  involved. 
Ideas  are  what  we  make  them.  If  we  think  ob 
scurely,  our  ideas  are  obscure  ;  if  one's  mental  activity 
is  complex,  his  ideas  are  complex.  Always  is  the 
mind  of  the  writer  the  medium  through  which  we 
see  his  matter.  Such  a  poet  as  George  Meredith 
thinks  obscurely.  There  is  a  large  blind  spot  in  his 
mind,  so  that  at  times  an  almost  total  eclipse  passes 
over  his  page.  Strain  one's  vision  as  one  may,  one 
cannot  make  out  just  what  he  is  trying  to  say.  Then 
there  are  lucid  intervals  —  strong,  telling  lines  ;  then 
the  shadow  falls  again  and  the  reader  is  groping  in 
the  dark.  The  difficulty  is  never  innate  in  his  sub 
ject,  but  is  in  the  poet's  use  of  language,  as  if  at 
times  he  caught  at  words  blindly  and  used  them  with 
out  reference  to  their  accepted  meanings,  as  when 
he  says  of  the  skylark,  "  He  drinks  his  hurried 


LUCID  LITERATURE  181 

flight  and  drops."     How  can  one  adjust  his  mind  to 
the  notion  of  a  bird  drinking  its  own  flight  ? 
Or  take  this  puzzle  :  — 

"Vermilion  wings,  by  distance  held 

To  pause  aflight  while  fleeting  swift, 
And  high  aloft  the  pearl  inshelled 
Her  lucid  glow  in  glow  will  lift." 

Does  not  the  reading  of  such  lines  set  one's  head 
in  a  whirl  ? 

The  impression  of  novelty  can  never  be  made  by 
a  trick  in  the  use  of  language,  nor  can  the  sense  of 
mystery  be  given  by  obscurity  of  expression.  Veils 
and  screens  and  dim  lights  may  do  it  in  the  world 
of  sense,  but  not  in  the  world  of  ideas.  The  reader 
feels  all  the  time  that  there  is  something  in  the 
way,  and  that  he  would  see  clearly  if  the  writer 
thought  clearly.  Freshness  and  novelty  are  the 
gifts  of  the  writer  whose  mind  is  fresh  and  who  has 
lively  and  novel  emotions  in  the  presence  of  every 
day  things  and  events. 

There  is  a  sense  of  mystery  in  much  of  the  poetry 
of  Wordsworth  and  Tennyson,  and  in  our  own 
Emerson  and  Whitman,  but  little  or  none  of  the 
Meredithian  blur  and  opacity.  One  may  not  at 
once  catch  the  full  meaning  of  Wordsworth's  "  Ode 
to  Immortality,"  or  Tennyson's  "  Tiresias  "or  "  An 
cient  Sage,"  or  Emerson's  "Brahma,"  or  Whit 
man's  "  Sleep  Chasings,"  but  how  transparent  the 
language,  how  unequivocal  the  emotion,  how  direct 
and  solid  the  expression !  There  is  a  vast  difference 
between  the  impression  or  want  of  impression 


182  LITERARY  VALUES 

made  by  a  commonplace  thought  veiled  and  hidden 
by  ambiguity  of  phrase,  and  that  made  by  "  some 
thing  far  more  deeply  interfused,  whose  dwelling  is 
the  light  of  setting  suns."  Great  poets  give  us  a 
sense  of  depth  and  height,  of  the  far  and  the  rare. 
Meredith  does  at  times,  but  oftener  he  gives  us  only 
a  sense  of  the  dense  and  the  foggy. 

There  are  two  reasons  why  we  may  not  understand 
a  man.  In  one  case  the  fault  is  in  him,  —  in  his 
clouded  and  ambiguous  way  of  thinking,  such  as  I 
have  already  spoken  of.  In  the  other  case  the 
fault,  or  rather  the  difficulty,  is  in  us.  The  man 
may  live  and  move  upon  a  different  spiritual  plane, 
he  may  have  an  atmosphere  and  cherish  ideals  that 
belong  to  another  world  than  ours.  Thus  the  solid 
men  of  Boston  did  not  understand  Emerson,  but 
said  their  daughters  did.  The  daughters  were  ha 
bitually  more  familiar  with  Emerson's  ideal  values 
than  the  fathers  were.  Thus  Scott  said  he  did 
not  understand  Wordsworth,  could  not  follow  his 
"  abstruse  ideas ; "  Campbell  suited  him  better. 
Scott  belonged  to  another  type  of  mind  than  that 
of  Wordsworth's,  lived  in  another  world.  There 
was  no  sense  of  mystery  in  his  mind,  —  of  that 
haunting,  elusive  something  which  Wordsworth  felt 
in  all  outward  nature.  There  was  no  religion  in 
Scott's  love  of  nature,  and  it  is  this  probably  that 
baffled  him  in  Wordsworth.  Both  were  born  country 
men  and  equal  lovers  of  common,  rural  things,  but 
Wordsworth  associated  them  with  his  spiritual  and 
ideal  joys  and  experiences,  while  Scott  found  in 


LUCID  LITERATURE  183 

them  an  appeal  to  his  copious  animal  spirits,  and 
his  love  of  sensuous  beauty.  Wordsworth  would 
understand  Scott  much  better  than  Scott  would  un 
derstand  Wordsworth.  The  ancient  poets  probably 
would  not  understand  the  moderns  nearly  as  well  as 
the  moderns  understand  the  ancients.  We  are  fur 
ther  along  on  the  road  of  human  experience. 

Then,  we  may  understand  a  work  and  not  appre 
ciate  it,  not  respond  to  its  appeal.  Appreciation  is 
based  upon  kinship.  We  are  more  in  sympathy 
with  some  types  of  mind  than  with  others  of  equal 
parts.  The  most  impersonal  and  judicious  of  critics 
cannot  escape  the  law  of  elective  affinities.  Some 
books  find  us  more  than  others  of  similar  merit. 
See  how  people  differ,  and  are  bound  to  differ,  about 
Whitman,  and  it  is  because  his  aim  is  not  merely  to 
give  the  reader  poetic  truth  disassociated  from  all 
personal  qualities  and  traits,  but  to  give  him  him 
self.  We  cannot  separate  the  poet  from  the  man, 
and  if  we  do  not  respond  to  the  man,  to  his  type, 
to  his  quality,  to  his  wholesale  and  radical  de 
mocracy,  we  shall  not  respond  to  the  poet.  If  we 
all  read  authors  only  through  our  taste  in  belles 
lettres,  through  our  love  of  literary  truth,  we 
should  agree  in  our  estimate  of  them  according  as 
our  tastes  agreed.  But  the  feeling  we  bring  to 
them  is  very  complex.  Character,  predisposition, 
jtatural  affinities,  race  traits,  all  play  a  part.  We 
are  very  apt  to  agree  about  such  a  poet  as  Milton, 
because  the  personal  element  plays  so  small  a  part 
in  his  poetry.  If  we  do  not  get  poetic  truth  in  him 


184  LITERARY   VALUES 

we  do  not  get  anything.  His  style  is  the  main 
thing,  as  it  is  with  the  Greek  poets.  In  other 
words,  there  is  nothing  in  Milton  that  makes  a  per 
sonal  appeal.  One  cannot  conceive  of  any  reader 
taking  him  to  his  heart,  appropriating  him,  and  find 
ing  his  life  colored  and  changed  by  him,  as  by  some 
later  poets.  Wordsworth  was  a  revelation  to  Mill ; 
Goethe,  Carlyle,  Emerson,  Whitman  have  in  the 
same  way  been  revelations  to  many  readers,  and  for 
the  same  reason,  —  their  intense  individual  point  of 
view.  Their  appeal  is  a  personal  and  a  religious 
one  as  well  as  a  poetic.  No  one  who  has  not  some 
thing  of  the  modern  pantheistic  feeling  toward  na 
ture  will  be  deeply  touched  by  Wordsworth.  No 
one  who  has  not  felt  the  burden  of  modern  problems, 
the  decay  of  the  old  faiths,  will  be  moved  by  Arnold's 
poetry.  His  "  sad  lucidity  of  soul  "  belongs  to  our 
age.  No  one  who  has  not  broken  away  from  the 
old  traditions  in  art  and  religion  and  in  politics,  and 
possessed  himself  emotionally  of  the  point  of  view 
afforded  by  modern  science,  will  make  much  ot 
Whitman.  Without  a  certain  mental  and  spiritual 
experience  and  a  certain  stamp  of  mind  Emerson 
will  not  be  much  to  you.  In  Poe  one's  sense  of 
artistic  forms  and  verbal  melody  are  alone  appealed 
to.  He  is  more  to  a  Frenchman  than  to  an  Ameri 
can.  If  you  are  ahungered  for  the  bread  of  life  do 
not  go  to  Poe,  do  not  go  to  Landor  or  to  Milton, 
do  not  go  to  the  current  French  poets.  Go  sooner 
to  Goethe,  to  Tennyson,  to  Browning,  to  Arnold,  to 
Whitman,  —  the  great  personal  poets,  the  men^  who 


LUCID  LITERATURE  185 

have  spiritual  and  religious  values  as  well  as  poetic. 
All  the  great  imaginative  writers  of  our  century  have 
felt,  more  or  less,  the  stir  and  fever  of  the  century, 
and  have  been  its  priests  and  prophets.  The  lesser 
poets  have  not  felt  these  things.  Had  Poe  been 
greater  or  broader  he  would  have  felt  them,  so 
would  Longfellow.  Neither  went  deep  enough  to 
touch  the  formative  currents  of  our  social  or  reli 
gious  or  national  life.  In  the  past  the  great  artist 
has  always  been  at  ease  in  Zion  ;  in  our  day  only 
the  lesser  artists  are  at  ease,  unless  we  except  Whit 
man,  man  of  unshaken  faith,  who  is  absolutely 
optimistic,  and  whose  joy  and  serenity  come  from  the 
breadth  of  his  vision  and  the  depth  and  universality 
of  his  sympathies. 


XI 

"MERE  LITERATURE" 

~T~S  there  any  justification  for  the  phrase  "mere 
-*-  literature  "  which  one  often  hears  nowadays  ? 
There  is  no  doubt  a  serious  sneer  in  it,  as  Professor 
Woodrow  Wilson,  in  a  recent  "Atlantic"  essay, 
avers  ;  but  I  think  the  sneer  is  not  aimed  so  much 
at  literature  in  itself  as  at  certain  phases  of  litera 
ture.  Lowell  has  been  quoted  as  saying  that  "  mere 
scholarship  is  as  useless  as  the  collecting  of  old 
postage  stamps  ;  "  yet  at  vital  scholarship  —  schol 
arship  that  is  wielded  as  a  weapon,  and  that  results 
in  power  —  Lowell  would  be  the  last  man  to  sneer. 
In  all  times  of  high  literary  culture  and  criticism,  a 
great  deal  is  produced  that  may  well  be  called  mere 
literature,  —  the  result  of  assiduous  training  and  stim 
ulation  of  the  literary  faculties, — just  as  a  great 
deal  of  art  is  produced  that  may  be  called  mere  art. 
Literature  that  is  the  result  of  the  friction  upon  the 
mind  of  other  literatures,  might,  with  some  justice, 
be  called  mere  literature.  That  which  is  the  result 
of  the  contact  of  the  mind  with  reality  is,  or  ought 
to  be,  of  another  order. 

Or  we  may  say  "  mere  literature  "  as  we  say  "  mere 
gentleman."     Now   gentlemanly  qualities  —  refine- 


MERE   LITERATURE  1ST 

inent,  good  breeding,  etc.  —  are  not  to  be  sneered  at, 
unless  they  stand  alone,  with  no  man  behind  them  ; 
and  literary  qualities  —  style,  learning,  fancy,  etc.  — 
are  not  to  be  sneered  at  unless  they  stand  alone, 
which  is  not  infrequently  the  case.  We  should  not 
apply  the  phrase  "  mere  gentleman  "  to  Washing 
ton,  or  Lincoln,  or  Wellington,  though  these  men 
may  have  been  the  most  thorough  of  gentlemen  ; 
neither  should  we  apply  the  phrase  "  mere  litera 
ture  "  to  the  works  of  Bacon,  or  Shakespeare,  or 
Carlyle,  or  Dante,  or  Plato.  The  Bible  is  literature, 
but  it  is  not  mere  literature.  We  apply  the  latter 
term  to  writings  that  have  little  to  recommend  them 
save  their  technical  and  artistic  excellence,  like  the 
mass  of  current  poetry  and  fiction.  The  men  who 
have  nothing  to  say  and  say  it  extremely  well  pro 
duce  mere  literature. 

Both  England  and  France  have  at  the  present 
time  many  excellent  writers,  men  who  possess  every 
grace  of  style  and  charm  of  expression,  who  still 
give  us  only  a  momentary  pleasure.  They  do  not 
move  us,  they  do  not  lay  strong  hands  upon  us,  their 
works  do  not  take  hold  of  any  great  reality ;  they 
produce  mere  literature.  Literary  seriousness,  lit 
erary  earnestness,  cannot  atone  for  a  want  of  manly 
seriousness  and  moral  earnestness.  A  sensitive  artis 
tic  conscience  cannot  make  us  content  with  a  dull 
or  obtuse  moral  conscience.  The  literary  worker  is 
to  confront  reality  in  just  as  serious  a  mood  as  does 
the  man  of  science,  if  he  hopes  to  produce  anything 
that  rises  above  mere  literature.  The  picnickers, 


188  LITERARY   VALUES 

the  excursionists,  the  flower-gatherers  of  literature 
do  not  produce  lasting  works.  The  seriousness  of 
Hawthorne  was  much  more  than  a  literary  serious 
ness  ;  the  emotion  of  Whittier  at  his  best  is  funda 
mental  and  human. 

There  is  a  passage  in  AmiePs  "  Journal"  that  well 
expresses  the  distinction  I  am  aiming  at.  "I  have 
been  thinking  a  great  deal  of  Victor  Cherbuliez," 
he  says,  under  date  of  December  4, 1876.  "  Perhaps 
his  novels  make  up  the  most  disputable  part  of  his 
work,  —  they  are  so  much  wanting  in  simplicity, 
feeling,  reality.  And  yet  what  knowledge,  style, 
wit,  and  subtlety , —  how  much  thought  everywhere, 
and  what  mastery  of  language  !  He  astonishes  one  ; 
I  cannot  but  admire  him.  Cherbuliez's  mind  is  of 
immense  range,  clear-sighted,  keen,  full  of  resources ; 
he  is  an  Alexandrian  exquisite,  substituting  for  the 
feeling  which  makes  men  earnest  the  irony  which 
leaves  them  free.  Pascal  would  say  of  him,  '  He 
has  never  risen  from  the  order  of  thought  to  the 
order  of  charity/  But  we  must  not  be  ungrateful. 
A  Lucian  is  not  worth  an  Augustine,  but  still  he  is 
a  Lucian.  .  .  .  The  positive  element  in  Victor 
Cherbuliez's  work  is  beauty,  not  goodness,  nor  moral 
or  religious  life." 

The  positive  element  in  the  enduring  works  is 
always  something  more  than  the  beautiful ;  it  is  the 
true,  the  vital,  the  real,  as  well.  The  beautiful  is 
there,  but  the  not-beautiful  is  there  also.  The  world 
is  held  together,  life  is  nourished  and  made  strong, 
and  power  begotten,  by  the  neutral  or  negatively 


MERE   LITERATURE  189 

beautiful.  Works  are  everywhere  produced  that 
are  artistically  serious,  but  morally  trifling  and  in 
sincere  ;  faultless  in  form,  but  tame  and  barren  in 
spirit.  We  could  not  say  this  of  the  works  of 
Froude  or  Kusjdn,  Huxley  or  Tyndall ;  we  cannot 
say  it  of  the  works  of  Matthew  Arnold,  because  he 
had  a  higher  purpose  than  to  produce  mere  literary 
effects ;  but  we  can  say  it  of  most  of  the  produc 
tions  of  the  younger  British  essayists  and  poets.  In 
some  of  them  there  is  a  mere  lust  of  verbal  forms 
and  rhythmic  lilt.  In  reading  their  poems,  I  soon 
find  myself  fairly  gasping  for  breath ;  I  seem  to  be 
trying  to  breathe  in  a  vacuum,  —  an  effect  which 
one  does  not  experience  at  all  in  reading  Tenny 
son,  or  Browning,  or  Arnold.  One  is  apt  to  have 
serious  qualms  in  reading  the  prose  of  Walter  Pa 
ter,  the  lust  of  mere  style  so  pervades  his  work. 
Faultless  workmanship,  one  says  ;  and  yet  the  best 
qualities  of  style  —  freshness,  naturalness,  simplicity 
—  are  not  here.  What  in  Victor  Hugo  goes  far 
towards  atoning  for  all  his  sins  against  art,  against 
sanity  and  proportion,  are  his  terrible  moral  earnest 
ness  and  his  psychic  power.  Whatever  we  may  think 
of  his  work,  we  are  not  likely  to  call  it  "  mere  liter 
ature.'7  That  masterly  ubiquitous  sporting  and  toy 
ing  with  the  elements  of  life  which  we  find  in  Shake 
speare  we  shall  probably  never  again  see  in  letters. 
The  stress  and  burden  of  later  times  do  not  favor 
it.  The  great  soul  is  now  too  earnest,  too  self-con 
scious  ;  life  is  too  serious.  Only  light  men  now 
essay  it.  With  so  much  criticism,  so  much  know- 


190  LITERARY   VALUES 

ledge,  so  much  science,  another  Shakespeare  is  impos 
sible.  Renan  says  :  "  In  order  to  establish  those  lit 
erary  authorities  called  classic,  something  especially 
healthy  and  solid  is  necessary.  Common  household 
bread  is  of  more  value  here  than  pastry."  There 
can  be  little  doubt  that  our  best  literary  workers 
are  intent  upon  producing  something  analogous  to 
pastry,  or  even  confectionery,  —  something  fine,  com 
plex,  highly  seasoned,  that  tickles  the  taste.  It  is 
always  in  order  to  urge  a  return  to  the  simple  and 
serious,  a  return  to  nature,  to  works  that  have  the 
wholesome  and  sustaining  qualities  of  natural  pro 
ducts,  —  grain,  fruits,  nuts,  air,  water. 


XII 

ANOTHER  WORD  ON  EMERSON 

~T~N  one  respect  many  of  us  feel  toward  Emerson  as 
"*•  a  wife  feels  toward  her  husband;  we  like  to 
find  fault  with  him  ourselves,  but  it  hurts  us  to 
have  others  do  the  same.  He  was  a  friend  of  our 
youth. 

Though  we  may  in  a  measure  have  outgrown  him, 
and  now  find  his  paradoxes,  his  daring  affirmations, 
his  trick  of  overstatement  and  understatement  less 
novel  and  stimulating  than  we  once  did,  yet  we 
cherish  him  in  our  heart  of  hearts. 

The  process  of  maturing,  with  the  spirit  as  with 
the  body,  with  man  as  with  the  various  organic 
growths,  is  more  or  less  a  hardening  and  toughening 
process,  —  a  hardening  for  strength  and  endurance. 
Emerson  belongs  to  the  earlier  period,  before  the 
hardening  has  progressed  far,  while  the  grain  of  our 
thoughts  is  yet  in  the  milk.  He  appeals  to  us  most 
strongly  in  youth  or  early  manhood,  when  we  are 
not  too  critical  and  while  we  are  yet  full  of  brave 
and  generous  impulses.  A  little  callow  we  may  be, 
but  buoyant  and  optimistic.  As  we  grow  older  some 
thing  seems  to  evaporate  from  him,  and  one  returns 
to  his  pages  in  middle  or  later  life  as  to  the  scene  of 


192  LITERARY  VALUES 

some  youthful  festival,  half  religious,  half  social,  in 
which  he  took  part,  and  the  memory  of  which  still 
stirs  his  emotions. 

Emerson  finally  dropped  the  church,  but  he  never 
ceased  to  be  a  clergyman.  He  was  like  a  flower  es 
caped  from  the  garden,  and  finding  a  lodgment  in  an 
adjoining  field,  but  which  never  ceased  to  be  a  gar 
den  flower.  A  certain  sanctity  and  unworldliness 
always  clung  to  him,  —  a  certain  remoteness  from 
the  common  thoughts,  aims,  attractions,  of  every 
day  humanity.  If  he  had  been  a  better  worldling 
he  would  have  been  a  better  poet,  —  that  is,  if  he 
had  had  more  of  the  feelings,  passions,  sympathies 
and  thoughts  of  ordinary  men.  These  things  would 
have  given  him  more  flexibility  and  brought  him 
closer  to  human  life.  Rarely,  as  poet  or  prose 
writer,  could  he  speak  in  the  tone  of  the  people. 
There  was  always,  more  or  less  concealed,  the  tone 
of  the  pulpit.  Mr.  James  expressed  this  idea  well 
when  he  said  that  Emerson  "  had  no  prosaic  side 
relating  him  to  ordinary  people." 

This  prosaic  side  is  very  important  to  the  poet, 
or  to  any  man  who  would  touch  and  move  his 
fellow-men.  We  desire  our  singer  or  teacher  to  be 
of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  as  ourselves.  Emerson 
was  always  a  preacher,  and  his  theme,  by  whatever 
name  he  called  it,  was  always  religion,  or  what  he 
called  religion,  namely,  the  universality  of  the  moral 
law. 

No  lover  of  Emerson,  I  imagine,  would  have  had 
him  other  than  what  he  was ;  I  certainly  would  not. 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  EMERSON      193 

At  the  same  time  it  is  a  pleasure  to  explore  his 
limitations  and  see  just  what  he  was,  and  what  he 
was  not.  He  was  a  rare  soul,  probably  the  most 
astral  genius  in  English  or  any  other  literature. 
His  books  are  for  young  men  and  for  those  of 
a  religious  cast  of  mind.  His  signal  defect  as  a 
writer,  as  a  contributor  to  the  world's  literature, 
arises  from  this  same  want  of  sympathy  with  the 
world,  —  from  the  select,  abridged,  circumscribed 
character  of  his  genius.  He  did  not  and  could  not 
deal  with  human  life  as  Montaigne,  or  Bacon,  or 
Plutarch,  or  Cicero  did. 

He  was  conscious  of  his  defect  in  this  direction, 
and  would  fain  have  had  it  otherwise.  Thus  he 
writes  in  his  journal  in  1839  :  "  We  would  all  be 
public  men  if  we  could  afford  it.  I  am  wholly 
private ;  such  is  the  poverty  of  my  constitution. 
*  Heaven  betrayed  me  to  a  book  and  wrapped  me  in 
a  gown.'  I  have  no  social  talent,  no  will,  and  a 
steady  appetite  for  insights  in  any  or  all  directions, 
to  balance  my  manifold  imbecilities."  He  even 
quotes  approvingly  the  remark  of  some  one  that  he 
"  always  seemed  to  be  on  stilts."  "  It  is  even  so. 
Most  of  the  persons  whom  I  see  in  my  own  house  I 
see  across  a  gulf.  I  cannot  go  to  them  nor  they 
come  to  me."  He  lacked  sympathy  with  men.  He 
cared  nothing  for  persons  as  such,  but  only  for  the 
genius  of  humanity  which  they  embodied,  and  this 
genius  of  humanity  he  did  not  find  in  any  sufficiency 
in  ordinary  mortals. 

He   writes  in  his  journal,   "  I  like  man,  but  not 


194  LITERARY   VALUES 

men  !  "  He  liked  ideas,  but  not  things.  He  dwelt 
in  the  abstract,  not  in  the  concrete.  "  In  the  high 
est  friendship,"  he  says,  "  we  form  a  league  with 
the  Idea  of  the  man  who  stands  to  us  in  that  re 
lation  —  not  with  the  actual  person."  And  his 
letters,  fine  and  eloquent  as  most  of  them  are,  do  not 
read  like  a  message  from  one  person  to  another 
person,  but  from  one  Idea  to  another  Idea. 

Yet  Emerson's  leading  trait  is  eminently  Ameri 
can  ;  I  mean  his  hospitality  toward  the  new,  — 
the  eagerness  with  which  he  sought  and  welcomed 
the  new  idea  and  the  new  man.  Perhaps  we  might 
call  it  his  inborn  radicalism.  No  writer  ever  made 
such  rash,  such  extreme  statements,  in  the  hope 
that  some  new  truth  might  be  compassed.  Any 
thing  new  and  daring  instantly  challenged  his  atten 
tion.  His  face  was  wholly  set  toward  the  future, 
—  the  new.  The  past  was  discredited  the  moment 
it  became  the  past.  "  The  coming  only  is  sacred," 
he  said  ;  "  no  truth  so  sublime  but  it  may  be  trivial 
to-morrow  in  the  light  of  new  thoughts." 

As  a  writer,  he  sought  to  make  all  the  old  thoughts 
appear  trivial  in  the  light  of  his  audacious  affirma 
tions.  He  stood  ready  at  all  times  to  strike  his 
colors  to  the  man  who  could  bring  a  larger  generali 
zation  than  his  own.  All  his  knowledge,  all  his 
opinions,  were  at  the  mercy  of  the  new  idea.  He 
did  not  tread  the  beaten  paths,  or  seek  truth  in  the 
logical  way  ;  he  sought  for  it  by  spurts  and  sallies  of 
the  mind.  He  called  himself  an  "  experimenter,"  and 
said  he  did  not  pretend  to  settle  anything  as  true 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  EMERSON      195 

or  false.  "  I  unsettle  all  things.  No  facts  are  to 
me  sacred  ;  none  are  profane  :  I  simply  experiment ; 
an  endless  seeker  with  no  Past  at  my  back."  In  his 
random,  prophetic  way  he  hits  on  many  sublime 
truths  —  hits  on  them  by  sheer  force  of  affirmation, 
like  the  truth  of  evolution,  and  of  the  correlation  of 
forces.  Indeed,  there  are  few  great  thoughts 
current  in  our  time  that  were  not  indicated  by  the 
bold .  guessing  of  Emerson.  The  fragmentary  and 
projectile-like  character  of  his  thinking  is  often  very 
effective.  He  spent  no  force  upon  logic,  upon  forti 
fying  his  position,  but  sent  his  single  bullet  as  far 
and  as  deep  as  he  could.  Emerson's  hope  and  con 
fidence  in  the  new  is  shown  in  his  serious  prophecy 
and  expectancy  of  the  coming  man. 

He  was  apparently  always  on  the  lookout  for  a 
new  and  greater  man  than  had  yet  appeared.  He 
was  always  sweeping  the  horizon  for  this  strange 
sail.  "  A  new  person,"  he  says,  "  is  to  me  a  great 
event,  and  keeps  me  from  sleep."  He  met  every 
stranger  with  a  curious,  expectant  glance.  He 
looked  at  you  and  waited  for  you  to  speak,  as  if  the 
thought  that  perhaps  here  is  the  man  I  am  waiting 
for,  was  never  absent  from  his  mind.  "  If  the  com 
panions  of  our  childhood,"  he  says,  "  should  turn 
out  to  be  heroes,  and  their  condition  regal,  it  would 
not  surprise  us."  But  the  experience  of  most  per 
sons,  I  fancy,  points  just  the  other  way  :  we  are 
always  incredulous  when  told  that  our  playmates 
have  turned  out  to  be  heroes ;  just  as  the  whole 
world,  except  the  Emersons  in  it,  are  skeptical  of 


196  LITERARY  VALUES 

the  worth  of  the  new  idea,  or  of  the  new  inven 
tion. 

Emerson  does  not  so  much  expound  a  philosophy 
as  he  celebrates  a  sentiment  or  a  law.  He  does  not 
inculcate  a  virtue,  but  quickens  our  moral  sense. 
He  does  not  teach  a  religion,  but  shows  all  nature  as 
religious.  His  method  is  not  that  of  the  analyst ; 
he  celebrates  and  presents  whole  what  others  give  in 
detail.  His  mind  is  deficient  in  continuity,  but 
strong  in  affirmation,  strong  in  its  separate  sallies 
and  nights.  He  has  not  a  definite,  practical  bent 
like  Carlyle ;  he  seldom  lays  his  hand  on  any  cur 
rent  evil  or  want,  but  rather  glorifies  the  world  as 
it  is.  He  is  abstract  in  his  aim,  and  concrete  in 
his  methods.  He  fixes  his  eye  on  the  star,  but 
would  make  it  draw  his  wagon. 

Carlyle  was  like  an  engine  tied  to  its  iron  rails, 
—  he  turned  aside  for  nothing  ;  Emerson  was  more 
like  a  sailing  yacht  that  hovers  about  all  shores  and 
takes  advantage  of  every  breeze. 


XIII 

THOKEAU'S  WILDNESS. 

TAOUBTLESS  the  wildest  man  New  England 
-*~^  has  turned  out  since  the  red  aborigines  vacated 
her  territory  was  Henry  Thoreau,  —  a  man  in 
whom  the  Indian  reappeared  on  the  plane  of  taste 
and  morals.  One  is  tempted  to  apply  to  him  his 
own  lines  on  "  Elisha  Dugan,"  as  it  is  very  certain 
they  fit  himself  much  more  closely  than  they  ever 
did  his  neighbor  :  — 

"  0  man  of  wild  habits, 
Partridges  and  rabbits, 
Who  hast  no  cares, 
Only  to  set  snares, 
Who  liv'st  all  alone 
Close  to  the  bone, 
And  where  life  is  sweetest 
Constantly  eatest." 

His  whole  life  was  a  search  for  the  wild,  not  only 
in  nature  but  in  literature,  in  life,  in  morals.  The 
shyest  and  most  elusive  thoughts  and  impressions 
were  the  ones  that  fascinated  him  most,  not  only  in 
his  own  mind,  but  in  the  minds  of  others.  His 
startling  paradoxes  are  only  one  form  his  wildness 
took.  He  cared  little  for  science,  except  as  it  es 
caped  the  rules  and  technicalities,  and  put  him  on 
the  trail  of  the  ideal,  the  transcendental.  Thoreau 


198  LITERARY   VALUES 

was  of  French  extraction ;  and  every  drop  of  his 
blood  seems  to  have  turned  toward  the  aboriginal,  as 
the  French  blood  has  so  often  done  in  other  ways 
in  this  country.  He,  for  the  most  part,  despised 
the  white  man  ;  but  his  enthusiasm  kindled  at  the 
mention  of  the  Indian.  He  envied  the  Indian  ;  he 
coveted  his  knowledge,  his  arts,  his  woodcraft.  He 
accredited  him  with  a  more  "  practical  and  vital 
science  "  than  was  contained  in  the  books.  "  The 
Indian  stood  nearer  to  wild  Nature  than  we."  "  It 
was  a  new  light  when  my  guide  gave  me  Indian 
names  for  things  for  which  I  had  only  scientific  ones 
before.  In  proportion  as  I  understood  the  lan 
guage,  I  saw  them  from  a  new  point  of  view.77  And 
again,  "  The  Indian's  earthly  life  was  as  far  off 
from  us  as  Heaven  is."  In  his  "  Week  "  he  com 
plains  that  our  poetry  is  only  white  man's  poetry. 
"  If  we  could  listen  but  for  an  instant  to  the  chant 
of  the  Indian  muse,  we  should  understand  why  he 
will  not  exchange  his  savageness  for  civilization." 
Speaking  of  himself,  he  says,  "  I  am  convinced  that 
my  genius  dates  from  an  older  era  than  the  agricul 
tural.  I  would  at  least  strike  my  spade  into  the 
earth  with  such  careless  freedom,  but  accuracy,  as 
the  woodpecker  his  bill  into  a  tree.  There  is  in 
my  nature,  methinks,  a  singular  yearning  toward 
all  wildness."  Again  and  again  he  returns  to 
the  Indian.  "We  talk  of  civilizing  the  Indian, 
but  that  is  not  the  name  for  his  improvement. 
By  the  wary  independence  and  aloofness  of  his  dim 
forest  life  he  preserves  his  intercourse  with  his 


THOREAU'S  WILDNESS  199 

native  gods,  and  is  admitted  from  time  to  time  to 
a  rare  and  peculiar  society  with  Nature.  He  has 
glances  of  starry  recognition,  to  which  our  saloons 
are  strangers.  The  steady  illumination  of  his  genius, 
dim  only  because  distant,  is  like  the  faint  but  satis 
fying  light  of  the  stars  compared  with  the  dazzling 
but  ineffectual  and  short-lived  blaze  of  candles." 
"We  would  not  always  be  soothing  and  taming 
nature,  breaking  the  horse  and  the  ox,  but  some 
times  ride  the  horse  wild,  and  chase  the  buffalo." 
The  only  relics  that  interest  him  are  Indian  relics. 
One  of  his  regular  spring  recreations  or  occupations 
is  the  hunting  of  arrow-heads.  He  goes  looking  for 
arrow-heads  as  other  people  go  berrying  or  botaniz 
ing.  In  his  published  journal  he  makes  a  long  en 
try  under  date  of  March  28,  1859,  about  his  pursuit 
of  arrow-heads.  "  I  spend  many  hours  every  spring," 
he  says,  "  gathering  the  crop  which  the  melting 
snow  and  rain  have  washed  bare.  When,  at  length, 
some  island  in  the  meadow  or  some  sandy  field 
elsewhere  has  been  ploughed,  perhaps  for  rye,  in 
the  fall,  I  take  note  of  it,  and  do  not  fail  to  repair 
thither  as  soon  as  the  earth  begins  to  be  dry  in  the 
spring.  If  the  spot  chances  never  to  have  been  culti 
vated  before,  I  am  the  first  to  gather  a  crop  from  it. 
The  farmer  little  thinks  that  another  reaps  a  harvest 
which  is  the  fruit  of  his  toil."  He  probably  picked 
up  thousands  of  arrow-heads.  He  had  an  eye  for 
them.  The  Indian  in  him  recognized  its  own. 

His  genius  itself  is  arrow-like,  and  typical  of  the 
wild  weapon  he  so  loved,  —  hard,  flinty,  fine-grained, 


200  LITERARY  VALUES 

penetrating,  winged,  a  flying  shaft,  bringing  down 
its  game  with  marvelous  sureness.  His  literary 
art  was  to  let  fly  with  a  kind  of  quick  inspira 
tion  ;  and  though  his  arrows  sometimes  go  wide, 
yet  it  is  always  a  pleasure  to  watch  their  aerial 
course.  Indeed,  Thoreau  was  a  kind  of  Emerso 
nian  or  transcendental  red  man,  going  about  with 
a  pocket-glass  and  an  herbarium,  instead  of  with  a 
bow  and  a  tomahawk.  He  appears  to  have  been  as 
stoical  and  indifferent  and  unsympathetic  as  a  veri 
table  Indian ;  and  how  he  hunted  without  trap  or 
gun,  and  fished  without  hook  or  snare  !  Everywhere 
the  wild  drew  him.  He  liked  the  telegraph  because 
it  was  a  kind  of  aeolian  harp ;  the  wind  blowing 
upon  it  made  wild,  sweet  music.  He  liked  the  rail 
road  through  his  native  town,  because  it  was  the 
wildest  road  he  knew  of :  it  only  made  deep  cuts 
into  and  through  the  hills.  "  On  it  are  no  houses  nor 
foot-travellers.  The  travel  on  it  does  not  disturb 
me.  The  woods  are  left  to  hang  over  it.  Though 
straight,  it  is  wild  in  its  accompaniments,  keeping 
all  its  raw  edges.  Even  the  laborers  on  it  are  not 
like  other  laborers.7'  One  day  he  passed  a  little 
boy  in  the  street  who  had  on  a  home-made  cap  of 
woodchuck's  skin,  and  it  completely  filled  his  eye. 
He  makes  a  delightful  note  about  it  in  his  journal. 
That  was  the  kind  of  cap  to  have,  —  "  a  perfect 
little  idyl,  as  they  say."  Any  wild  trait  unexpect 
edly  cropping  out  in  any  of  the  domestic  animals 
pleased  him  immensely.  The  crab-apple  was  his 
favorite  apple^  because  of  its  beauty  and  perfume. 


THOREAU'S   WILDNESS  201 

He   perhaps   never   tried   to  ride  a  wild  horse,  but 
such  an  exploit  was  in  keeping  with  his  genius. 

Thoreau  hesitated  to  call  himself  a  naturalist.  That 
was  too  tame ;  he  would  perhaps  have  been  content 
to  have  been  an,  Indian  naturalist.  He  says  in  this 
journal,  and  with  much  truth  and  force,  "  Man  can 
not  afford  to  be  a  naturalist,  to  look  at  Nature 
directly,  but  only  with  the  side  of  his  eye.  He 
must  look  through  and  beyond  her.  To  look  at  her 
is  as  fatal  as  to  look  at  the  head  of  Medusa.  It 
turns  the  man  of  science  to  stone. "  When  he  was 
applied  to  by  the  secretary  of  the  Association  for 
the  Advancement  of  Science,  at  Washington,  for  in 
formation  as  to  the  particular  branch  of  science  he 
was  most  interested  in,  he  confesses  he  was  ashamed 
to  answer  for  fear  of  exciting  ridicule.  But  he  says, 
"If  it  had  been  the  secretary  of  an  association  of 
which  Plato  or  Aristotle  was  the  president,  I  should 
not  have  hesitated  to  describe  my  studies  at  once 
and  particularly."  "The  fact  is,  I  am  a  mystic, 
a  transcendentalist,  and  a  natural  philosopher  to 
boot."  Indeed,  what  Thoreau  was  finally  after  in 
nature  was  something  ulterior  to  science,  something 
ulterior  to  poetry,  something  ulterior  to  philosophy  ; 
it  was  that  vague  something  which  he  calls  "  the 
higher  law,"  and  which  eludes  all  direct  statement. 
He  went  to  Nature  as  to  an  oracle  ;  and  though  he 
sometimes,  indeed  very  often,  questioned  her  as  a 
naturalist  and  a  poet,  yet  there  was  always  another 
question  in  his  mind.  He  ransacked  the  country 
about  Concord  in  all  seasons  and  weathers,  and  at 


202  LITERARY   VALUES 

all  times  of  the  day  and  night  he  delved  into  the 
ground,  he  probed  the  swamps,  he  searched  the 
waters,  he  dug  into  woodchuck  holes,  into  muskrats' 
dens,  into  the  retreats  of  the  mice  and  squirrels ;  he 
saw  every  bird,  heard  every  sound,  found  every 
wild-flower,  and  brought  home  many  a  fresh  bit  of 
natural  history ;  but  he  was  always  searching  for 
something  he  did  not  find.  This  search  of  his  for 
the  transcendental,  the  unfindable,  the  wild  that  will 
not  be  caught,  he  has  set  forth  in  a  beautiful  parable 
in  "  Walden  :  "  — 

"  I  long  ago  lost  a  hound,  a  bay  horse,  and  a 
turtle-dove,  and  am  still  on  their  trail.  Many  are 
the  travellers  I  have  spoken  concerning  them,  de 
scribing  their  tracks,  and  what  calls  they  answered 
to.  I  have  met  one  or  two  who  had  heard  the  hound, 
and  the  tramp  of  the  horse,  and  even  seen  the  dove 
disappear  behind  a  cloud ;  and  they  seemed  as 
anxious  to  recover  them  as  if  they  had  lost  them 
themselves." 


XIV 

NATURE   IN  LITERATURE 

OEVEBAL  different  kinds  or  phases  of  this  thing 
k-'  we  call  Nature  have  at  different  times  appeared 
in  literature.  For  instance,  there  is  the  personified 
or  deified  Nature  of  the  towering  Greek  hards,  an 
expression  of  Nature  horn  of  wonder,  fear,  childish 
ignorance,  and  the  tyranny  of  personality ;  the 
Greek  was  so  alive  himself  that  he  made  everything 
else  alive,  and  so  manly  and  human  that  he  could 
see  only  these  qualities  in  Nature.  Or  the  Greek 
idyllic  poets,  whose  Nature  is  simple  and  fresh  like 
spring  water,  or  the  open  air,  or  the  taste  of  milk  or 
fruit  or  "bread.  The  same  thing  is  perhaps  true  in 
a  measure  of  Virgil's  Nature.  In  a  later  class  of 
writers  and  artists  that  arose  in  Italy,  Nature  is 
steeped  in  the  faith  and  dogmas  of  the  Christian 
Church ;  it  is  a  kind  of  theological  Nature. 

In  English  literature  there  is  the  artificial  Nature 
of  Pope  and  his  class,  —  a  kind  of  classic  liturgy 
repeated  from  the  hooks,  and  as  dead  and  hollow  as 
fossil  shells.  Earlier  than  that,  the  quaint  and  af 
fected  Nature  of  the  Elizabethan  poets ;  later  the 
melodramatic  and  wild-eyed  Nature  of  the  Byronic 
muse ;  and  lastly,  the  transmuted  and  spiritualized 


204  LITERARY   VALUES 

Nature  of  Wordsworth,  which  has  given  the  pre 
vailing  tone  and  cast  to  most  modern  poetry.  Thus, 
from  a  goddess  Nature  has  changed  to  a  rustic 
nymph,  a  cloistered  nun,  a  heroine  of  romance,  be 
sides  other  characters  not  so  definite,  till  she  has  at 
last  become  a  priestess  of  the  soul.  What  will  be 
the  next  phase  is  perhaps  already  indicated  in  the 
poems  of  Walt  Whitman,  in  which  Nature  is  re 
garded  mainly  in  the  light  of  science,  through  the 
immense  vistas  opened  up  by  astronomy  and  geology. 
This  poet  sees  the  earth  as  one  of  the  orbs,  and  has 
sought  to  adjust  his  imagination  to  the  modern  pro 
blems  and  conditions,  always  taking  care,  however, 
to  preserve  an  outlook  into  the  highest  regions. 

I  was  much  struck  with  a  passage  in  Whitman's 
last  volume,  "Two  Bivulets,"  in  which  he  says 
that  he  has  not  been  afraid  of  the  charge  of  obscurity 
in  his  poems,  "because  human  thought,  poetry  or 
melody,  must  have  dim  escapes  and  outlets,  —  must 
possess  a  certain  fluid,  aerial  character,  akin  to  space 
itself,  obscure  to  those  of  little  or  no  imagination, 
but  indispensable  to  the  highest  purposes.  Poetic 
style,  when  addressed  to  the  soul,  is  less  definite 
form,  outline,  sculpture,  and  becomes  vista  music, 
half-tints,  and  even  less  than  half-tints."  I  know 
no  ampler  justification  of  a  certain  elusive  quality 
there  is  in  the  highest  poetry  —  something  that  re 
fuses  to  be  tabulated  or  explained,  and  that  is  a 
stumbling-block  to  many  readers  —  than  is  contained 
in  these  sentences. 


XV 

SUGGESTIVENESS 

npHEKE  is  a  quality  that  adheres  to  one  man's 
-*-  writing  or  speaking,  and  not  to  another's,  that 
we  call  suggestiveness,  —  something  that  warms  and 
stimulates  the  mind  of  the  reader  or  hearer,  quite 
apart  from  the  amount  of  truth  or  information 
directly  conveyed. 

It  is  a  precious  literary  quality,  not  easy  of  defini 
tion  or  description.  It  involves  quality  of  mind, 
mental  and  moral  atmosphere,  points  of  view,  and 
maybe,  racial  elements.  Not  every  page  or  every 
book  carries  latent  meaning  ;  rarely  does  any  sen 
tence  of  a  writer  float  deeper  than  it  shows. 

Thus,  of  the  great  writers  of  English  literature, 
Dr.  Johnson  is,  to  me,  the  least  suggestive,  while 
Bacon  is  one  of  the  most  suggestive.  Hawthorne  is 
undoubtedly  the  most  suggestive  of  our  romancers ; 
he  has  the  most  atmosphere  and  the  widest  and  most 
alluring  horizon.  Emerson  is  the  most  suggestive  of 
our  essayists,  because  he  has  the  deepest  ethical  and 
prophetic  background.  His  page  is  full  of  moral  elec 
tricity,  so  to  speak,  which  begets  a  state  of  electric 
excitement  in  his  reader's  mind.  Whitman  is  the 
most  suggestive  of  our  poets ;  he  elaborates  the  least 
and  gives  us  in  profusion  the  buds  and  germs  of 


206  LITERARY   VALUES 

poetry.  A  musical  composer  once  said  to  me  that 
Whitman  stimulated  him  more  than  Tennyson,  be 
cause  he  left  more  for  him  to  do,  —  he  abounded 
in  hints  and  possibilities  that  the  musician's  mind 
eagerly  seized. 

This  quality  is  not  related  to  ambiguity  of  phrase 
or  to  cryptic  language  or  to  vagueness  and  obscurity. 
It  goes,  or  may  go,  with  perfect  lucidity,  as  in 
Matthew  Arnold  at  his  best,  while  it  is  rarely  pre 
sent  in  the  pages  of  Herbert  Spencer.  Spencer  has 
great  clearness  and  compass,  but  there  is  nothing 
resonant  in  his  style,  —  nothing  that  stimulates  the 
imagination.  He  is  a  great  workman,  but  the  metal 
he  works  in  is  not  of  the  kind  called  precious. 

The  late  roundabout  and  enigmatical  style  of 
Henry  James  is  far  less  fruitful  in  his  readers'  minds 
than  his  earlier  and  more  direct  one,  or  than  the 
limpid  style  of  his  compeer,  Mr.  Howells.  The 
indirect  and  elliptical  method  may  undoubtedly  be 
so  used  as  to  stimulate  the  mind ;  at  the  same  time 
there  may  be  a  kind  of  inconclusiveness  and  beating 
around  the  bush  that  is  barren  and  wearisome.  Upon 
the  page  of  the  great  novelist  there  fall,  more  or  less 
distinct,  all  the  colors  of  the  spectrum  of  human 
life ;  but  Mr.  James  in  his  later  works  seems  intent 
only  upon  the  invisible  rays  of  the  spectrum,  and  his 
readers  grope  in  the  darkness  accordingly. 

In  the  world  of  experience  and  observation  the 
suggestiveness  of  things  is  enhanced  by  veils,  con 
cealments,  half  lights,  flowing  lines.  The  twilight 
is  more  suggestive  than  the  glare  of  noonday,  a 


SUGGESTIVENESS  207 

rolling  field  than  a  lawn,  a  winding  road  than  a 
straight  one.  In  literature  perspective,  indirection, 
understatement,  side  glimpses,  have  equal  value  ;  a 
vocabulary  that  is  warm  from  the  experience  of  the 
writer,  sentences  that  start  a  multitude  of  images, 
that  abound  in  the  concrete  and  the  specific,  that 
shun  vague  generalities,  —  with  these  go  the  power 
of  suggestiveness. 

Beginnings,  outlines,  summaries,  are  suggestive, 
while  the  elaborated,  the  highly  wrought,  the  per 
fected  afford  us  a  different  kind  of  pleasure.  The 
art  that  fills  and  satisfies  us  has  one  excellence,  and 
the  art  that  stimulates  and  makes  us  ahunger  has 
another.  All  beginnings  in  nature  afford  us  a  pe 
culiar  pleasure.  The  early  spring  with  its  hints 
and  dim  prophecies,  the  first  earth  odors,  the  first 
robin  or  song  sparrow,  the  first  furrow,  the  first 
tender  skies,  the  first  rainbow,  the  first  wild  flower, 
the  dropping  bud  scales,  the  awakening  voices  in 
the  marshes,  — all  these  things  touch  and  move  us 
in  a  way  that  later  developments  in  the  season  do  not. 
What  meaning,  too,  in  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset,  in 
the  night  with  its  stars,  the  sea  with  its  tides  and 
currents,  the  morning  with  its  dews,  autumn  with 
its  bounty,  winter  with  its  snows,  the  desert  with  its 
sands,  —  in  everything  in  the  germ  and  in  the  bud, 
—  in  parasites,  suckers,  blights,  in  floods,  tempests, 
droughts !  The  winged  seeds  carry  thoughts,  the 
falling  leaves  make  us  pause,  the  clinging  burrs  have 
a  tongue,  the  pollen  dust,  not  less  than  meteoric  dust, 
conveys  a  hint  of  the  method  of  nature. 


208  LITERARY  VALUES 

Some  things  and  events  in  our  daily  experience  are 
more  typical,  and  therefore  more  suggestive,  than 
others.  Thus  the  sower  striding  across  the  ploughed 
field  is  a  walking  allegory,  or  parable.  Indeed  the 
whole  life  of  the  husbandman,  —  his  first-hand  rela 
tion  to  things,  his  ploughing,  his  planting,  his  fer 
tilizing,  his  draining,  his  pruning,  his  grafting,  his 
uprootings,  his  harvestings,  his  separating  of  the 
wheat  from  the  chaff,  and  the  tares  from  the  wheat, 
his  fencing  his  field  with  the  stones  and  boulders 
that  hindered  his  plough  or  cumbered  his  sward,  his 
making  the  wilderness  blossom  as  the  rose,  —  all 
these  things  are  pleasant  to  contemplate  because  in 
them  there  is  a  story  within  a  story,  we  translate 
the  facts  into  higher  truths. 

In  like  manner,  the  shepherd  with  his  flocks,  the 
seaman  with  his  compass  and  rudder,  the  potter  with 
his  clay,  the  weaver  with  his  warp  and  woof,  the 
sculptor  with  his  marble,  the  painter  with  his  can 
vas  and  pigments,  the  builder  with  his  plans  and 
scaffoldings,  the  chemist  with  his  solvents  and  pre- 
cipitants,  the  surgeon  with  his  scalpel  and  antisep 
tics,  the  lawyer  with  his  briefs,  the  preacher  with 
his  text,  the  fisherman  with  his  nets,  —  all  are  more 
or  less  symbolical  and  appeal  to  the  imagination. 

In  both  prose  and  poetry,  there  is  the  suggestive- 
ness  of  language  used  in  a  vivid,  imaginative  way, 
and  the  suggestiveness  of  words  redolent  of  human 
association,  words  of  deep  import,  as  friend,  home, 
love,  marriage. 

To  me  Shakespeare's  sonnets  are  the  most  sugges- 


SUGGESTIVENESS  209 

tive  sonnets  in  the  language,  because  they  so  abound 
in  words,  images,  allusions  drawn  from  real  life  j 
they  are  the  product  of  a  mind  vividly  acted  upon 
by  near-by  things,  that  uses  language  steeped  in  the 
common  experience  of  mankind.  The  poet  drew  his 
material  not  from  the  strange  and  the  remote,  but, 
as  it  were,  from  the  gardens  and  thoroughfares  of 
life.  Does  not  that  poetry  or  prose  work  touch  us 
the  most  nearly  that  deals  with  that  with  which  we 
are  most  familiar  ?  One  thing  that  separates  the 
minor  poet  from  the  major  is  that  the  thoughts  and 
words  of  the  minor  poet  are  more  of  the  nature  of 
asides,  or  of  the  exceptional ;  he  does  not  take  in  the 
common  and  universal ;  we  are  not  familiar  with  the 
points  of  view  that  so  agitate  him;  and  he  has  not 
the  power  to  make  them  real  to  us.  I  read  poems 
every  day  that  provoke  the  thought,  "  Well,  that  is 
all  news  to  me.  I  do  not  know  that  heaven  or  that 
earth,  those  men  or  those  women,"  —  all  is  so  shad 
owy,  fantastic,  and  unreal.  But  when  you  enter  the 
world  of  the  great  poets  you  find  yourself  upon  solid 
ground ;  the  sky  and  the  earth,  and  the  things  in  them 
and  upon  them,  are  what  you  have  always  known, 
and  not  for  a  moment  are  you  called  upon  to  breathe 
in  a  vacuum,  or  to  reverse  your  upright  position  to 
see  the  landscape.  Dante  even  makes  hell  as  tan 
gible  and  real  as  the  objects  of  our  senses,  if  not 
more  so. 

Then  there  is  the  suggestiveness  or  kindling  power 
of  pregnant,  compact  sentences,  —  type  thoughts, 
compendious  phrases,  —  vital  distinctions  or  gen- 


210  LITERARY   VALUES 

eralizations,  such  as  we  find  scattered  through 
literature,  as  when  De  Quincey  says  of  the  Eo- 
man  that  he  was  great  in  the  presence  of  man, 
never  in  the  presence  of  nature ;  or  his  distinction 
between  the  literature  of  power  and  the  literature 
of  knowledge,  or  similar  illuminating  distinctions  in 
the  prose  of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Carlyle,  Arnold, 
Goethe,  Lessing.  Arnold's  dictum  that  poetry  is 
a  criticism  of  life,  is  suggestive,  because  it  sets  you 
thinking  to  verify  or  to  disprove  it.  John  Stuart 
Mill  was  not  what  one  would  call  a  suggestive 
writer,  yet  the  following  sentence,  which  Mr.  Au 
gustine  Birrell  has  lately  made  use  of,  makes  a  de 
cided  ripple  in  one's  mind :  "  I  have  learnt  from 
experience  that  many  false  opinions  may  be  ex 
changed  for  true  ones  without  in  the  least  altering 
the  habits  of  mind  of  which  false  opinions  are  the 
result."  In  a  new  home  writer  whose  first  books 
are  but  a  year  or  two  old,  I  find  deeply  suggestive 
sentences  on  nearly  every  page.  Here  are  two  or 
three  of  them :  "  In  your  inmost  soul  you  are 
as  well  suited  to  the  whole  cosmical  order  and  every 
part  of  it  as  to  your  own  body.  You  belong  here. 
Did  you  suppose  that  you  belonged  to  some  other 
world  than  this,  or  that  you  belonged  nowhere  at 
all,  just  a  waif  on  the  bosom  of  the  eternities  ?  .  .  . 
Conceivably  He  might  have  flung  you  into  a  world 
that  was  unrelated  to  you,  and  might  have  left  you 
to  be  acclimated  at  your  own  risk  ;  but  you  happen 
to  know  that  this  is  not  the  case.  You  have  lived 
here  always ;  this  is  the  ancestral  demesne ;  for 


SUGGESTIVENESS  211 

ages  and  ages  you  have  looked  out  of  these  same  win 
dows  upon  the  celestial  landscape  and  the  star-deeps. 
You  are  at  home."  "  How  perverse  and  pathetic 
the  desires  of  the  animals !  But  they  all  get  what 
they  ask  for,  — -  long  necks  and  trunks,  napping 
ears  and  branching  horns  and  corrugated  hides,  any 
thing,  if  only  they  will  believe  in  life  and  try."  1 

The  intuitional  and  affirmative  writers,  to  which 
class  our  new  author  belongs,  and  the  most  notable 
example  of  which,  in  <this  country,  was  Emerson, 
are,  as  a  rule,  more  suggestive  than  the  clearly  de 
monstrating  and  logical  writers.  A  challenge  to  the 
soul  seems  to  mean  more  than  an  appeal  to  the  rea 
son  ;  an  audacious  affirmation  often  irradiates  the 
mind  in  a  way  that  a  logical  sequence  of  thought 
does  not.  Science  rarely  suggests  more  than  it 
says ;  but  in  the  hands  of  an  imaginative  man  like 
Maeterlinck  a  certain  order  of  facts  in  natural  history 
becomes  fraught  with  deepest  meaning,  as  may  be 
witnessed  in  his  wonderful  "  Life  of  the  Bee,"  — 
one  of  the  most  enchanting  and  poetic  contributions 
to  natural  history  ever  made.  Darwin's  work  upon 
the  earthworm,  and  upon  the  cross  fertilization  of 
flowers,  in  the  same  way  seems  to  convey  more 
truth  to  the  reader  than  is  warranted  by  the  subject. 

The  writer  who  can  touch  the  imagination  has 
the  key,  at  least  one  key,  to  suggestiveness.  This 
power  often  goes  with  a  certain  vagueness  and  in- 
definiteness,  as  in  the  oft-quoted  lines  from  one  of 
Shakespeare's  sonnets  :  — 

1  The  Religion  of  Democracy.     By  Charles  Ferguson. 


212  LITERARY   VALUES 

"  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come," 

a  very   suggestive,   but    not    a    clearly   intelligible 


Truth  at  the  centre,  straightly  put,  excites  the 
mind  in  one  way,  and  truth  at  the  surface,  or  at  the 
periphery  of  the  circle,  indirectly  put,  excites  it 
in  another  way  and  for  other  reasons  j  just  as  a 
light  in  a  dark  place,  which  illuminates,  appeals  to 
the  eye  in  a  different  way  from  the  light  of  day  fall 
ing  through  vapors  or  colored  glass,  wherein  objects 
become  softened  and  illusory. 

A  common  word  may  be  so  used  as  to  have  an 
unexpected  richness  of  meaning,  as  when  Coleridge 
speaks  of  those  books  that  "  find "  us  ;  or  Shake 
speare  of  the  "  marriage  of  true  minds,"  or  Whitman 
of  the  autumn  apple  hanging  "  indolent-ripe "  on 
the  tree.  Probably  that  language  is  the  most  sug 
gestive  that  is  the  most  concrete,  that  is  drawn  most 
largely  from  the  experience  of  life,  that  savors  of 
real  things.  The  Saxon  English  of  Walton  or  Bar 
row  is  more  suggestive  than  the  latinized  English  of 
Johnson  or  Gibbon. 

Indeed,  the  quality  I  am  speaking  of  is  quite 
exceptional  in  the  eighteenth-century  writers.  It  is 
much  more  abundant  in  the  writers  of  the  seven 
teenth  century.  It  goes  much  more  with  the  ver 
nacular  style,  the  homely  style,  than  with  the  pol 
ished  academic  style. 

With  the  stream  of  English  literature  of  the 
nineteenth  century  has  mingled  a  current  of  German 


SUGGESTIVENESS  213 

thought  and  mysticism,  and  this  has  greatly  height 
ened  its  power  of  suggestiveness  both  in  poetry  and 
in  prose.  It  is  not  in  Byron  or  Scott  or  Campbell 
or  Moore  or  Macaulay  or  Irving,  but  it  is  in  Words 
worth  and  Coleridge  and  Landor  and  Carlyle  and 
Ruskin  and  Blake  and  Tennyson  and  Browning  and 
Emerson  and  Whitman,  —  a  depth  and  richness  of 
spiritual  and  emotional  background  that  the  wits  of 
Pope's  and  Johnson's  times  knew  not  of.  It  seems 
as  if  the  subconscious  self  played  a  much  greater 
part  in  the  literature  of  the  nineteenth  century  than 
of  the  eighteenth,  probably  because  this  term  has 
been  recently  added  to  our  psychology. 

As  a  rule  it  may  be  said  that  the  more  a  writer 
condenses,  the  more  suggestive  his  work  will  be. 
There  is  a  sort  of  mechanical  equivalent  between 
the  force  expended  in  compacting  a  sentence  and  the 
force  or  stimulus  it  imparts  again  to  the  reader's 
mind.  A  diffuse  writer  is  rarely  or  never  a  sugges 
tive  one.  Poetry  is,  or  should  be,  more  suggestive 
than  prose,  because  it  is  the  result  of  a  more  com 
pendious  and  sublimating  process.  The  mind  of  the 
poet  is  more  tense,  he  uses  language  under  greater 
pressure  of  emotion  than  the  prose  writer,  whose 
medium  of  expression  gives  his  mind  more  play 
room.  The  poet  often  succeeds  in  focusing  his  mean 
ing  or  emotion  in  a  single  epithet,  and  he  alone 
gives  us  the  resounding,  unforgettable  line.  There 
are  pregnant  sentences  in  all  the  great  prose  writers  ; 
there  are  immortal  lines  only  in  the  poets. 

Whitman  said  the  word  he  would  himself  use  as 


214  LITERARY   VALUES 

most  truly  descriptive  of  his  "  Leaves  of  Grass " 
was  the  word  suggestiveness.  "  I  round  and  finish 
little,  if  anything ;  and  could  not  consistently  with 
my  scheme.  The  reader  will  always  have  his  or  her 
part  to  do,  just  as  much  as  I  have  had  mine.  I 
seek  less  to  state  or  display  my  theme  or  thought, 
and  more  to  bring  you,  reader,  into  the  atmosphere 
of  the  theme  or  thought  —  there  to  pursue  your  own 
flight."  These  sentences  themselves  are  suggestive, 
because  they  bring  before  the  mind  a  variety  of 
definite  actions,  as  finishing  a  thing,  displaying  a 
thing,  doing  your  part,  pursuing  your  own  flight, 
and  yet  the  idea  conveyed  has  a  certain  subtlety  and 
elusiveness.  The  suggestiveness  of  his  work  as  a 
whole  probably  lies  in  its  blending  of  realism  and 
mysticism,  and  in  the  art  of  it  running  parallel  to  or 
in  some  way  tallying  with  the  laws  and  processes  of 
nature.  It  stimulates  thought  and  criticism  as  few 
modern  works  do. 

Of  course  the  suggestiveness  of  any  work  —  poem, 
picture,  novel,  essay  —  depends  largely  upon  what 
we  bring  to  it ;  whether  we  bring  a  kindred  spirit 
or  an  alien  one,  a  full  mind  or  an  empty  one,  an 
alert  sense  or  a  dull  one.  If  you  have  been  there, 
so  to  speak,  if  you  have  passed  through  the  experi 
ence  described,  if  you  have  known  the  people  por 
trayed,  if  you  have  thought,  or  tried  to  think,  the 
thoughts  the  author  exploits,  the  work  will  have  a 
deeper  meaning  to  you  than  to  one  who  is  a  stranger 
to  these  things.  The  best  books  make  us  acquainted 
with  our  own,  —  they  help  us  to  find  ourselves.  No 


SUGGESTIVENESS  215 

book  calls  forth  the  same  responses  from  two  differ 
ent  types  of  mind.  The  wind  does  not  awaken 
seolian-harp  tones  from  cornstalks.  No  man  is  a 
hero  to  his  valet.  It  is  the  deep  hollows  and  passes 
of  the  mountains  that  give  back  your  voice  in  pro 
longed  reverberations.  The  tides  are  in  the  sea,  not 
in  the  lakes  and  ponds.  Words  of  deep  import  do 
not  mean  much  to  a  child.  The  world  of  books  is 
under  the  same  law  as  these  things.  What  any 
given  work  yields  us  depends  largely  upon  what  we 
bring  to  it. 


XVI 

ON  THE   RE-READING  OF  BOOKS 

A  FTER  one  has  passed  the  middle  period  of  life, 
-*--*-  or  even  long  before  that,  it  is  interesting  to 
note  what  books  he  spontaneously  recurs  to  and  re 
reads.  Do  his  old  favorites  retain  anything  of  their 
first  freshness  and  stimulus  for  him,  or  have  they 
become  stale  and  trite,  or  completely  outgrown  ?  On 
taking  down  for  the  third  or  fourth  time  a  favorite 
author  the  present  winter,  I  said  to  myself,  "  There 
is  no  test  of  a  book  like  that :  can  we,  and  do  we, 
go  back  to  it  ?  "  If  not,  is  it  at  all  probable  that 
future  generations  will  go  back  to  it  ?  One's  own 
experience  may  be  looked  upon  as  the  experience  of 
the  race  in  miniature.  If  one  cannot  return  to  an 
author  again  and  again,  is  it  not  pretty  good  evidence 
that  his  work  has  not  the  keeping  qualities  ?  One 
brings  a  different  self,  a  different  experience,  to  each 
re-reading,  and  thus  in  a  measure  brings  the  test  of 
time  and  humanity.  Yet  there  is  always  some  diffi 
culty  in  going  back.  It  is  difficult  to  go  back,  after 
some  years,  to  live  in  a  place  from  which  one  has 
once  flitted.  Somehow  things  look  stale  to  us.  Is 
it  our  dead  selves  that  we  encounter  at  every  turn  ? 
Even  the  old  homestead  has  a  certain  empty,  pa- 


ON  THE   RE-READING  OF   BOOKS  217 


thetic,  forlorn  look.  In  the  journey  of  life  there  is 
always  more  or  less  pain  in  going  back ;  and  I  sup 
pose  it  is  partly  because  in  every  place  in  which  we 
have  lived  we  have  had  pain,  and  partly  because 
there  is  some  innate  dislike  in  us  to  going  back  ;  the 
watchword  of  the  soul  is  onward.  If  the  book  has 
given  us  pain,  we  cannot  return  to  it ;  and  our  sec 
ond  or  third  or  fourth  pleasure  in  it  will  be  in  pro 
portion  to  the  depth  and  genuineness  of  our  first. 
If  our  pleasure  was  in  the  novelty  or  strangeness  or 
unexpectedness  of  the  thing,  it  will  not  return,  or 
only  in  small  measure.  Stories  of  exciting  plots,  I 
find,  one  can  seldom  re-read.  One  can  go  back  to 
the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ;  "  but  can  he  read  a  second 
time  "  The  Woman  in  White  "  ?  In  such  books 
there  can  be  only  one  first  time.  Pluck  out  the 
heart  of  a  mystery  once,  and  it  never  grows  again. 
Curiosity  and  astonishment  make  a  poor  foundation 
to*build  upon.  The  boy  tires  of  his  jumping-jack 
much  sooner  than  of  his  top  or  ball.  Only  the 
normal,  the  sane,  the  simple,  have  the  gift  of  long 
life ;  the  strained,  the  intemperate,  the  violent  will 
not  live  out  half  their  days.  We  never  outgrow  our 
pleasure  in  simple,  common  things;  ~ifwe  do,  so  much 
the  worse  for  tits';  and  I  think  it  will  be  found  that 
those  books  to  which  we  return  and  that  stand  the 
test  of  time  have  just  this  quality  of  simple,  universal, 
e very-day  objects  and  experiences,  with,  of  course, 
some  glint  of  that  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
land,  —  the  light  of  the  spirit.  How  many  times 
does  a  reading  man  return  to  Montaigne,  not  to  make 


218  LITERARY  VALUES 

a  dead  set  at  him,  but  to  dip  into  him  here  and  there, 
as  one  takes  a  cup  of  water  from  a  spring  !  Human 
nature  is  essentially  the  same  in  all  ages ;  and  Mon 
taigne  put  so  much  of  his  genuine,  unaffected  self 
into  his  pages,  and  put  it  with  such  vivacity  of  style, 
that  all  men  find  their  own  in  his  book ;  it  is  for 
ever  modern.  We  return  to  Bacon  for  a  different 
reason,  —  the  breadth  and  excellence  of  his  wisdom, 
and  his  masterly  phrases.  The  excellent  is  always 
modern  ;  only,  what  is  excellent  ? 

A  man  of  my  own  tastes  re-reads  Gilbert  White 
two  or  three  times,  and  dips  into  him  many  times 
more.  It  is  easy  to  see  why  such  a  book  lasts.  So 
much  writing  there  is  that  is  like  half-live  coals 
buried  in  ashes;  but  here  there  are  no  ashes,  no  dead 
verbiage  at  all ;  we  are  in  immediate  contact  with  a 
live,  simple,  unaffected  mind  and  personality.  But 
this  general  description  applies  to  all  books  that  last ; 
they  all  have  at  least  one  quality  in  common,  liv 
ing  reality.  What  is  special  to  White  is  his  fine, 
scholarly  style,  busied  with  the  common,  homely 
things  of  everyday  country  life.  The  facts  are  just 
enough  heightened  and  related  to  the  life  of  this  man 
to  make  them  of  perennial  interest. 

We  probably  go  back  to  books  from  two  motives  : 
one,  because  we  want  to  recover  some  past  mood  or 
experience  to  which  the  book  may  be  the  key  ;  and 
the  other  from  the  perennial  sources  of  pleasure  and 
profit  which  a  good  book  holds  ;  in  other  words  for 
association  and  inspiration. 

I  suppose  it  was  with  some  such  motives  as  these 


ON   THE   RE-READING   OF   BOOKS  219 

that  I  recently  opened  the  "  Autocrat "  after  the 
pages  had  been  closed  to  me  for  over  a  quarter  of  a 
century.  To  recover  as  far  as  possible  the  spirit  of 
the  old  days,  I  got  out  the  identical  numbers  of  the 
"  Atlantic  "  in  which  I  had  first  read  those  sparkling 
sentences.  Life  to  me  had  the  freshness  and  buoy 
ancy  of  the  morning  hours  in  those  first  years  of  the 
great  Boston  magazine.  I  recall  how  impatiently  I 
waited  for  each  number  to  appear,  and  how,  on  one 
occasion  at  least,  I  ran  all  the  way  home  from  the 
post-office  with  the  new  issue  in  my  hand,  so  eager 
was  I  to  be  alone  with  it  in  my  room.  I  remember, 
too,  how  I  resented  the  criticism  of  a  schoolmate, 
then  at  Harvard  College,  who  said  that  Holmes  was 
not  the  great  writer  I  fancied  him  to  be,  but  only  a 
Boston  great  writer. 

Well,  I  found  places  in  the  "  Autocrat  "  that 
would  not  bear  much  pressure,  —  thin  places  where 
a  lively  rhetoric  alone  carried  the  mind  over.  And 
I  found  much  that  was  sound  and  solid,  that  would 
not  give  way  beneath  one  under  any  pressure  he 
could  bring. 

When  Dr.  Holmes  got  hold  of  a  real  idea,  as  he 
often  did,  he  could  exploit  it  in  as  taking  a  way  as 
any  man  who  has  lived  ;  but  frequently,  I  think,  he 
got  hold  of  sham  or  counterfeit  ideas  ;  and  these, 
with  all  his  skill  in  managing  them,  will  not  stand 
the  pressure  of  time.  (His  classing  poems  with 
meerschaum  pipes,  as  two  things  that  improve  with 
use,  is  an  instance  of  what  I  mean  by  his  sham 
ideas.) 


220  LITERAKY  VALUES 

As  a  writer  Dr.  Holmes  always  reminded  me  of  cer 
tain  of  our  bird  songsters,  such  as  the  brown  thrasher 
or  the  catbird,  whose  performances  always  seem  to 
imply  a  spectator  and  to  challenge  his  admiration. 
The  vivacious  doctor  always  seemed  to  write  with 
his  eye  upon  his  reader,  and  to  calculate  in  advance 
upon  his  reader's  surprise  and  pleasure.  If  the  world 
finally  neglects  his  work,  it  will  probably  be  because 
it  lacks  the  deep  seriousness  of  the  enduring  produc 
tions. 

Yet  this  test  of  re-reading  is,  of  course,  only  an 
approximate  one.  So  great  an  authority  as  Hume 
said  it  was  sufficient  to  read  Cowley  once,  but  that 
Parnell  after  the  fiftieth  reading  was  as  fresh  as  at 
the  first.  Now,  for  my  part,  I  have  to  go  to  the 
encyclopedia  to  find  out  who  Parnell  was,  but  of 
Cowley  even  desultory  readers  like  myself  know 
something.  His  essays  one  can  not  only  read,  but 
re-read.  They  make  one  of  the  unpretentious  minor 
books  that  one  can  put  in  his  pocket  and  take  with 
him  on  a  walk  to  the  woods,  and  nibble  at  under  a 
tree  or  by  a  waterfall.  Solitude  seems  to  bring  out 
its  quality,  as  it  does  that  of  some  people. 

In  our  intellectual  experience  there  can  probably 
be  but  one  first  time.  We  go  back  to  an  author 
again  and  again  ;  yet  in  all  save  a  few  exceptional 
cases,  the  pleasure  of  the  second  or  third  reading  is 
only  a  lesser  degree  of  the  first.  On  the  other  hand, 
a  favorite  piece  of  music  one  may  hear  with  the  same 
keen  delight  any  number  of  times.  Is  it  because 
music  is  so  largely  made  up  of  the  sensuous,  at 


ON   THE   RE-READING   OF   BOOKS  221 

least  to  a  greater  extent  than  is  any  other  phase 
of  art  ?  It  is  the  same  with  perfumes,  flavors,  col 
ors  :  they  never  lose  their  first  freshness  to  us.  But 
a  hook  or  a  poem  we  absorb  and  exhaust  more  or 
less,  —  that  is,  >as  to  its  intellectual  content ;  and  if 
we  return  to  it,  it  is  probably  for  some  charm  or 
quality  that  is  to  the  spirit  what  music  or  perfume  or 
color  is  to  the  senses,  or  what  a  congenial  companion 
is  to  our  social  instincts.  We  shall  not  go  back 
to  a  book  that  does  not  in  some  way,  apart  from  its 
mere  intellectual  service,  relate  itself  to  our  lives. 

Time  tries  all  things,  and  surely  does  it  sift  out 
the  false  and  fugitive  in  books.  Contemporary  judg 
ment  is  usually  unreliable.  It  is  like  trial  by  jury, 
the  local  and  accidental  play  so  large  a  part  in  the 
verdict.  The  next  age,  or  the  next,  forms  the  higher 
court  of  appeal.  In  the  same  way  a  man's  future 
self  corrects  or  sets  aside  his  verdict  of  to-day.  If  in 
later  life  he  reaffirms  his  first  opinion,  the  chances  are 
that  time  is  on  his  side.  There  is,  of  course,  a  sense 
or  a  degree  in  which  any  book  that  one  has  once  read 
becomes  a  sucked  orange ;  but  some  books  become 
much  more  so  than  others.  I  doubt  if  many  of  us 
find  books  that,  like  a  few  people,  become  dearer  to' 
us  as  time  passes,  and  to  which  we  always  return 
with  increasing  interest.  And  the  reason  is  that  one's 
mental  and  spiritual  outlook  is  not  uniformly  the 
same,  while  his  social  and  human  wants,  such  as  his 
need  of  food  and  warmth,  do  remain  about  the  same. 
One  in  a  measure  absorbs  the  book  and  puts  it  be 
hind  him.  It  is  like  a  place  he  has  visited  :  he  has 


222  LITERARY  VALUES 

had  the  view,  and  until  the  impression  is  more  or 
less  obliterated  he  does  not  care  to  repeat  it.  But 
one's  friend  is  always  a  fresh  stimulus  :  he  keeps 
the  past  alive  for  him  (which  the  book  can  also  do 
in  a  measure),  and  he  consecrates  the  present  (which 
the  book  cannot  do) .  Indeed,  the  sense  of  compan 
ionship  which  one  can  have  in  a  book  is  but  a  faint 
echo  or  shadow  of  the  companionship  he  has  with 
persons.  Yet  this  sense  of  companionship  does  ad 
here  to  some  books  much  more  vividly  than  to 
others.  They  are  our  books  ;  they  were  written  for 
us  ;  they  become  a  part  of  our  lives,  and  they  do 
not  drop  away  from  us  with  the  lapse  of  time,  as  do 
others.  Different  readers  have  felt  this  way  about 
such  writers  as  Emerson,  Carlyle,  Wordsworth,  and 
Whitman ;  but  it  may  be  a  question  how  writers 
who  make  the  intense  personal  appeal  that  these  men 
make  will  wear.  Are  they  too  special  and  individ 
ual  for  future  generations  to  recognize  close  kinship 
with  ?  Will  each  age  have  its  own  doctors  and 
saviors,  and  go  back  only  for  lovers  and  for  the  touch 
of  nature  that  makes  all  the  world  kin  ?  I  know 
not ;  yet  it  is  apparent  that  he  who  stands  upon  the 
common  ground  where  all  men  stand,  and  by  the 
magic  of  his  genius  makes  poetry  and  romance  out  of 
that,  has  the  best  chance  to  endure.  Only  so  far  as 
the  writers  named,  or  any  writers,  represent  states 
of  mind  and  spirit  that  are  likely  to  return  again 
and  again,  and  not  to  be  outgrown  in  the  progress  of 
the  race,  are  we  likely  to  come  back  to  them,  or  is 
the  future  likely  to  feel  an  interest  in  them.  A  path 


ON   THE   RE-READING   OF   BOOKS  223 

or  a  road  becomes  obsolete  wben  there  are  no  more 
travelers  going  that  way ;  and  an  author  becomes 
obsolete  when  there  are  no  more  readers  going  his 
way. 

For  my  part,  I  find  myself  returning  again  and 
again  to  the  works  of  the  men  named,  but,  of  course, 
with  the  cooled  ardor  that  years  bring  to  every  man. 
I  feel  that  I  am  less  near  the  end  with  Whitman 
than  with  any  of  the  others  ;  he  is  the  most  stimulat 
ing  to  my  intellect,  because  he  suggests  the  most  far- 
reaching  problems.  I  re-read  Wordsworth  as  I  walk 
again  along  familiar  paths  that  lead  to  the  seques 
tered  and  the  idyllic.  I  climb  the  Whitman  moun 
tain  when  I  want  a  big  view,  and  a  wide  horizon, 
and  a  glimpse  of  the  unknown. 

I  think  the  service  most  of  us  get  from  Carlyle  is 
a  moral  rather  than  an  intellectual  one.  He  was  to 
his  generation  more  like  a  much-needed  drastic  tonic 
remedy  than  like  a  simple  hygienic  regimen  ;  we  get 
the  virtue  of  him  now  in  a  thousand  ways  without 
re-reading  him.  Hence  there  are  more  chances  of 
our  outgrowing  him  than  of  our  outgrowing  some 
lesser  but  more  normal  men.  In  a  measure,  I  think, 
this  is  true  of  Emerson,  but  not  entirely  so.  Emer 
son  has  charm  ;  he  has  illusion  ;  he  has  the  witchery 
of  the  ideal.  He  is  like  the  wise  doctor  whose  pre 
sence,  whose  reassuring  smile,  and  whose  cheerful 
prognosis  do  more  for  the  patient  than  anything  else. 
We  want  him  to  come  again  and  again.  To  re 
read  his  first  essays,  his  "  Representative  Men,"  his 
"  English  Traits,"  and  many  of  his  poems,  is  again 


224  LITERARY   VALUES 

to  hear  music,  to  breathe  perfume,  or  to  walk  in  a 
spring  twilight  when  the  evening  star  throbs  above 
the  hill. 

One  winter  night  I  tried  to  re-read  Carlyle's  "  Past 
and  Present "  and  certain  of  his  "  Latter-Day  Pam 
phlets  ; "  but  I  found  I  could  not,  and  thanked  my 
stars  that  I  did  not  have  to.  It  was  like  riding  a 
spirited  but  bony  horse  bareback.  There  was  tre 
mendous  "  go "  in  the  beast ;  but  oh,  the  bruises 
from  those  knotty  and  knuckle-like  sentences  !  But 
the  "  Life  of  Sterling  "  I  have  found  I  can  re-read 
with  delight ;  it  has  a  noble  music.  Certain  of  the  es 
says,  also,  such  as  the  ones  on  Scott,  Burns,  and  John 
son,  have  a  perennial  quality.  Parts  of  "  Frederick  " 
I  mean  to  read  again,  and  the  "  Keminiscences."  I 
have  re-read  "  Sartor  Resartus,"  but  it  was  a  task, 
hardly  a  pleasure.  Nearly  four  fifths  of  the  book,  I 
should  say,  is  chaff ;  but  the  other  fifth  is  real  wheat, 
if  you  are  not  choked  in  getting  it.  Yet  I  have  just 
read  the  story  of  an  educated  tramp  who  carried  the 
book  in  his  blanket  thousands  of  miles  and  knew  it 
nearly  by  heart.  Carlyle  wrote  as  he  talked ;  his 
"Latter-Day  Pamphlets"  are  harangues  that  it 
would  have  been  a  delight  to  hear,  but  in  the  printed 
page  we  miss  the  guiding  tone  and  emphasis,  and 
above  all  do  we  miss  the  laugh  that  mollified  the 
bitter  words.  One  can  stand,  or  even  welcome,  in 
life  what  may  be  intolerable  in  print ;  put  the  same 
thing  in  a  book,  and  it  is  the  pudding  without  the 
sauce,  and  cold  at  that.  The  colloquial  style  is  good, 
or  the  best,  if  perfectly  easy  and  simple.  In  reading 


ON   THE   RE-READING  OF   BOOKS  225 

aloud  we  teach  our  children  to  read  as  they  speak, 
and  thus  make  the  words  their  own.  The  same  thing 
holds  in  writing :  the  less  formal,  the  less  written, 
the  sentences  are,  or  the  more  they  are  like  familiar 
speech,  the  more  genuine  and  real  the  writing  seems, 
the  more  it  becomes  one's  own ;  but  when  the  form 
and  manner  of  spoken  sentences  are  very  pronounced, 
they  become  tiresome  when  transferred  to  print. 
Carlyle  will  doubtless  hold  his  place  in  English  lit 
erature,  but  he  is  terribly  handicapped  in  some  of 
his  books  by  his  crabbed,  raw-boned  style. 

What  reading  man  does  not  re-read  Bos  well's 
"Johnson"  two  or  three  times  in  the  course  of  his 
life  ?  The  charm  of  this  is  that  it  is  so  much  like 
the  spoken  word,  and  so  filled  with  the  presence 
of  the  living  man.  Another  volume  of  a  similar 
kind,  which  I  have  read  three  times  and  dipped  into 
any  number  of  times,  is  Eckermann's  "  Conversa 
tions  with  Goethe."  It  is  a  pregnant  book ;  in 
fact,  I  know  no  such  armory  of  critical  wisdom  any 
where  else  as  this  book  contains.  Its  human  in 
terest  may  not  be  equal  to  Boswell,  though  I  find 
this  very  great ;  but  as  an  intellectual  excitant  it  is 
vastly  superior. 

It  is  a  profitable  experience  for  one  who  read 
Dickens  forty  years  ago  to  try  to  read  him  now. 
Last  winter  I  forced  myself  through  the  "  Tale  of 
Two  Cities."  It  was  a  sheer  dead  pull  from  start 
to  finish.  It  all  seemed  so  insincere,  such  a  trans 
parent  make-believe,  a  mere  piece  of  acting.  My 
sympathies  were  hardly  once  touched.  I  was  not 


226  LITERARY   VALUES 

insensible  to  the  marvelous  genius  displayed  in  the 
story,  but  it  left  me  cold  and  unmoved.  A  feeling 
of  unreality  haunted  me  on  every  page.  The  fault 
may  have  been  my  own.  I  give  myself  reluctantly 
to  a  novel,  yet  I  love  to  be  entirely  mastered  by  one. 
But  my  poor  success  with  this  one,  of  course,  makes 
me  think  that  Dickens's  hold  upon  the  future  is  not 
at  all  secure.  A  man  of  wonderful  talents,  but  of 
no  deep  seriousness  ;  a  matchless  mimic  through  and 
through,  and  nothing  else.  But  I  am  proud  to  add 
that  my  boy,  a  youth  of  eighteen,  reads  his  books 
with  great  enthusiasm. 

Natural,  irrepressible  humor  is  always  welcome ; 
but  the  humor  of  the  grotesque,  the  exaggerated, 
the  distorted,  is  like  a  fashion  in  dress  :  it  has  its 
day.  How  surely  we  tire  of  the  loud,  the  too  pro 
nounced,  the  merely  peculiar,  whether  it  be  in  car 
pets  and  wall-papers,  or  in  books  and  art!  The 
common,  the  average,  the  universal,  quickened  with 
a  new  spirit,  imbued  with  a  vernal  freshness  —  that 
is  the  stuff  of  enduring  works. 

One  often  wonders  what  is  the  secret  of  the  vital 
ity  of  such  a  book  as  Dana's  "  Two  Years  before 
the  Mast.7'  Each  succeeding  generation  reads  it 
with  the  same  pleasure.  I  can  myself  re-read  it 
every  ten  or  a  dozen  years.  Parkman's  "  Oregon 
Trail "  has  much  of  the  same  perennial  charm  as 
has  Franklin's  autobiography. 

How  far  perfect  seriousness  and  good  faith  carry 
in  literature  !  Why  should  they  not  count  for  just 
as  much  here  as  in  life  ?  They  count  in  anything. 


ON  THE  EE-READING   OF   BOOKS  227 

The  least  bit  of  acting  and  pretense,  and  the  words 
ring  false.  The  effort  of  the  writer  of  books  like 
"  Two  Years  before  the  Mast "  is  always  entirely 
serious  and  truthful ;  his  eye  is  single  ;  he  has  no 
vanities  to  display  before  the  reader.  Compare  this 
book  with  such  a  record  as  Stevenson's  "  Inland 
Voyage  "  or  his  "  Travels  with  a  Donkey."  Here 
the  effort  is  mainly  literary,  and  we  get  the  stimu 
lus  of  words  rather  than  of  things  ;  we  are  one  re 
move  more  from  reality. 

General  Grant's  "  Memoirs,"  I  think,  are  likely 
to  last,  because  of  their  deep  seriousness  and  good 
faith.  The  effort  here  is  not  a  literary  one,  but  a 
real  one.  The  writer  is  not  occupied  with  his  man 
ner,  but  with  his  matter.  Had  Grant  had  any  liter 
ary  vanity  or  ambition,  is  it  at  all  probable  that  his 
narrative  would  cleave  to  us  as  it  does  ?  The  near 
presence  of  death  would  probably  cure  any  man  of 
his  vanity,  if  he  had  any ;  but  Grant  never  had 
any. 

I  have  always  felt  that  Tennyson's  famous  poem 
"  Crossing  the  Bar "  did  not  ring  quite  true,  be 
cause  it  was  not  conceived  in  a  spirit  serious  enough 
for  the  occasion.  The  poetic  effort  is  too  obvious  ; 
the  pride  of  the  verse  is  too  noticeable  ;  it  bedecks 
itself  with  pretty  fancies.  The  last  solemn  strain 
of  Whitman,  wherein  he  welcomes  death  as  the 
right  hand  of  God,  strikes  a  far  deeper  chord,  I 
think.  As  in  the  Biblical  writers,  the  literary  effort 
is  entirely  lost  in  the  religious  faith  and  fervor. 
We  do  not  want  a  thing  too  much  written  ;  in  fact, 


228  LITERARY   VALUES 

we  do  not  want  it  written  at  all,  but  spoken  directly 
from  the  heart.  It  is  in  this  respect  that  I  think 
Wordsworth's  poetry,  at  its  best,  is  better  than 
Tennyson's.  It  is  more  inevitable ;  it  wrote  it 
self  ;  the  poetic  intention  is  not  so  obvious ;  the  art 
of  the  singer  is  more  completely  effaced  by  his  in 
spiration. 

There  are  probably  few  readers  of  the  critical  lit 
erature  of  the  times  who  do  not  recur  again  and 
again  to  Matthew  Arnold's  criticism,  not  only  for 
the  charm  of  the  style,  but  for  the  currents  of  vital 
thought  which  it  holds.  One  may  not  always  agree 
with  Arnold,  but  for  that  very  reason  one  will  go 
back  to  see  how  it  is  possible  to  differ  from  a  man 
who  sees  so  clearly  and  feels  so  justly.  Of  course, 
Arnold's  view  is  not  final,  any  more  than  is  that  of 
any  other  man ;  but  it  is  always  fit,  and  challenges 
your  common  sense.  After  the  muddle  and  puddle 
of  most  literary  criticism,  the  reader  of  Arnold 
feels  like  a  traveler  who  has  got  out  of  the  confusion 
of  brush  and  bog  into  clean  and  clear  open  spaces, 
where  the  ground  is  firm,  and  where  he  can  see  his 
course. 

"  Where'er  the  trees  grow  biggest, 
Huntsmen  find  the  easiest  way," 

says  Emerson,  and  for  a  similar  reason  the  way  is 
always  easy  and  inviting  through  Arnold's  pages. 

But  his  theological  criticism  has  less  charm ;  and, 
for  my  part,  I  doubt  if  it  will  survive.  I  once 
seriously  tried  to  re-read  his  "  Literature  and 
Dogma,"  but  stuck  before  I  had  got  half-way 


ON    THE   RE-READING   OF   BOOKS  229 

through  it.  I  suppose  I  found  too  much  dogma  in 
it.  Arnold  makes  a  dogma  out  of  what  he  calls  the 
"  method  and  secret  of  Jesus/7  his  "  method  of  in 
wardness  "  and  "  secret  of  self-renunciation  ;  "  he 
iterates  and  reiterates  these  phrases  till  one  never 
wants  to  hear  them  again.  Arnold's  besetting  sin 
of  giving  a  quasi-scientific  value  to  certain  literary 
terms  here  has  free  rein,  and  one  finds  only  a  new 
kind  of  inflexibility  in  place  of  the  one  he  con 
demns.  Sir  Thomas  Browne  directed  a  free  play  of 
mind  upon  the  old  dogmas,  and  the  result  was  the 
"  Keligio  Medici,"  a  work  which  each  generation 
treasures  and  re-reads,  not  because  of  the  dogma,  but 
because  of  the  literature ;  it  is  a  rare  specimen  of 
vital,  flexible,  imaginative  writing.  It  is  full  of 
soul,  like  Emerson's  "Divinity  School  Address," 
which  sought  to  dissolve  certain  of  the  old  dogmas. 
In  both  these  authors  we  are  made  free  as  the  spirit 
makes  free ;  but  in  Arnold's  criticism  we  are  made 
free  only  as  a  liberal  Anglicanism  makes  free,  which 
is  not  much. 

The  books  that  we  do  not  like  to  part  with  after 
we  have  read  them,  that  we  like  to  keep  near  us,  — 
like  Amiel's  "  Journal,"  say,  —  are  probably  the  books 
that  our  children's  children  will  like  to  have  around. 
A  Western  woman  once  paid  an  Eastern  author  this 
rare  compliment.  "  Most  of  the  new  books,"  she 
said,  "  we  see  at  the  public  library  ;  but  your  books 
we  always  buy,  because  we  like  to  have  them  in  the 
house."  Probably  it  is  the  personal  element  in  a 
book,  the  quality  of  the  writer,  that  alone  endears 


230  LITERARY    VALUES 

it  to  us.     If  we  could  not  love  the  man,  is  it  prob 
able  that  we  can  love  his  book  ? 

Of  our  New  England  poets,  I  find  myself  taking 
down  Emerson  oftener  than  any  other  ;  then  Bryant; 
occasionally  Longfellow  for  a  few  poems ;  then 
Whittier  for  "  The  Playmate  "  or  "  Snow-Bound  "  ; 
and  least  of  all,  Lowell.  I  am  not  so  vain  as  to 
think  that  the  measure  of  my  appreciation  of  these 
poets  is  the  measure  of  their  merit;  but  as  this 
writing  is  so  largely  autobiographical,  I  must  keep 
to  the  facts.  As  the  pathos  and  solemnity  of  life 
deepen  with  time,  I  think  one  finds  only  stray 
poems,  or  parts  of  poems,  in  the  New  England  an 
thology  that  adequately  voice  them  ;  and  these  he 
finds  in  Emerson  more  plentifully  than  anywhere 
else,  though  in  certain  of  Longfellow's  sonnets  there 
is  adequacy  also.  The  one  on  "  Sumner,"  begin 
ning,  — 

River,  that  stealest  with  such  silent  pace, 

easily  fixed  itself  in  my  mind. 

I  think  we  go  back  to  books  not  so  much  for  the 
amount  of  pleasure  we  have  had  in  them,  as  the  kind 
of  pleasure.  There  is  a  pleasure  both  in  books  and  in 
life  that  is  inconsistent  with  health  and  wholeness, 
and  there  is  a  pleasure  that  is  consistent  with  these 
things.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation  makes  us 
cleave  to  the  latter.  I  do  not  think  we  go  back  to 
the  exciting  books,  —  they  do  not  usually  leave  a 
good  taste  in  the  mouth  ;  neither  to  the  dull  books, 
which  leave  no  taste  at  all  in  the  mouth  ;  but  to 
the  quiet,  mildly  tonic  and  stimulating  books,  — 


ON   THE  KE-EEADING  OF   BOOKS  231 

books  that  have  the  virtues  of  sanity  and  good  na 
ture,  and  that  keep  faith  with  us. 

At  any  rate,  an  enduring  fame  is  of  slow  growth. 
The  man  of  the  moment  is  rarely  the  man  of  the 
eternities.  If  your  name  is  upon  all  men's  tongues 
to-day,  some  other  name  is  likely  to  be  there  to 
morrow. 


XVII 

THE    SPELL   OF   THE   PAST 

~T~  NOTICE  that  as  a  man  grows  old  he  is  more 
-*-  and  more  fond  of  quoting  his  father,  —  what  he 
said,  what  he  did.  It  has  more  and  more  force  or 
authority  with  him.  It  is  a  tribute  to  the  past. 
Not  until  one  has  reached  the  meridian  of  life  or 
gone  beyond  it,  does  the  spell  of  the  past  begin  to 
creep  over  him. 

Said  a  middle-aged  woman  to  me  the  other  day, 
"  Old  people  are  beginning  to  look  very  good  to 
me ;  I  like  to  be  near  them  and  to  hear  them  talk." 
It  is  a  common  experience.  I  have  seen  many  a 
granny  on  the  street  whom  I  felt  like  kidnapping, 
taking  home,  and  seating  in  my  chimney  corner,  for 
the  sake  of  the  fragrance  and  pathos  of  the  past 
which  hovered  about  her ;  for  the  sake  also,  I  sup 
pose,  of  the  filial  yearning  which  is  pretty  sure  to 
revive  in  one  after  a  certain  time. 

No  woman  can  ever  know  the  depths  of  her  love 
for  her  mother  until  she  has  become  a  mother 
herself,  and  no  man  knows  the  depths  of  his 
love  for  his  father  until  he  has  become  a  father. 
When  we  have  experienced  what  they  experienced, 
when  we  have  traveled  over  the  road  which  they 


THE   SPELL   OF  THE   PAST  233 

traveled  over,  they  assume  a  new  value,  a  new 
sacredness  in  our  eyes.  They  are  then  our  former 
selves,  and  a  peculiarly  tender  regard  for  them 
awakens  in  our  hearts.  There  is  pathos  in  the  fact 
that  so  many  people  lose  their  parents  before  the 
experiences  of  life  have  brought  about  that  final 
flavoring  and  ripening  of  the  filial  instinct  to  which 
I  refer. 

After  one  has  lived  half  a  century,  and  maybe 
long  before,  his  watch  begins  to  lose  time ;  the  years 
come  faster  than  he  is  ready  for  them ;  while  he  is 
yet  occupied  with  the  old,  the  new  is  upon  him. 
How  alien  and  unfriendly  seem  the  new  years, 
strangers  whom  we  reluctantly  entertain  for  a  time  but 
with  whom  we  seem  hardly  to  get  on  speaking  terms, 
—  with  what  uncivil  haste  they  come  rushing  in ! 
One  writes  down  the  figures  on  his  letters  or  in  his 
journals,  but  they  all  seem  alien ;  before  one  has 
become  at  all  intimate  with  them,  so  that  they  come 
to  mean  anything  special  to  him,  they  are  gone. 
While  he  is  yet  occupied  with  the  sixties,  living 
upon  the  thoughts  and  experiences  which  they 
brought  him,  the  seventies  have  come  and  gone  and 
the  eighties  have  knocked  at  his  door. 

The  earlier  years  one  took  to  his  heart  as  he  did 
his  early  friends.  How  much  we  made  of  them ; 
what  varied  hues  and  aspects  they  wore ;  how  we 
came  to  know  each  other  ;  how  rounded  and  com 
plete  were  all  things  !  Ah,  the  old  friends  and  the 
old  years,  we  cannot  separate  them  ;  they  had  a 
quality  and  an  affinity  for  us  that  we  cannot  find  in 


234  LITERARY  VALUES 

the  new.  The  new  years  and  the  new  friends 
come  and  go,  and  leave  no  impression.  Youth 
makes  all  the  world  plastic  ;  it  creates  all  things 
anew ;  youth  is  Adam  in  Paradise,  from  which  the 
burdens  and  the  experiences  of  manhood  will  by 
and  by  cause  him  to  depart  with  longing  and  sorrow. 
"  When  we  were  young,"  says  Schopenhauer,  "  we 
were  completely  absorbed  in  our  immediate  sur 
roundings  ;  there  was  nothing  to  distract  our  atten 
tion  from  them ;  we  looked  upon  the  objects  about 
us  as  though  they  were  the  only  ones  of  their  kind, 
—  as  though,  indeed,  nothing  else  existed  at  all." 

It  is  perhaps  inevitable  that  a  man  of  sensibility 
and  imagination  should  grow  conservative  as  he 
grows  old.  The  new  is  more  and  more  distasteful 
to  him.  Did  you  ever  go  back  to  the  old  home 
stead  where  you  had  passed  your  youth  or  your 
early  manhood,  and  find  the  old  house,  the  old  barn, 
the  old  orchard,  in  fact  all  the  old  landmarks  gone  ? 
What  a  desecration,  you  thought.  The  new  build 
ings,  how  hateful  they  look  to  you!  They  mean 
nothing  to  you  but  the  obliteration  of  that  which 
meant  so  much.  This  experience  proves  nothing 
except  that  the  past  becomes  a  part  of  our  very 
selves  ;  our  roots,  our  beginnings,  are  there,  and  we 
bleed  when  old  things  are  cut  away. 

After  a  certain  age  is  reached,  how  trivial  and 
flitting  seem  the  new  generations  !  The  people  whom 
we  found  upon  the  stage  when  we  came  into  the 
world,  —  the  middle-aged  and  the  elderly  people  who 
were  bearing  the  brunt  of  the  battle,  —  they  seem 


THE   SPELL   OF  THE   PAST  235 

important  and  like  a  part  of  the  natural  system  of 
things.  When  they  pass  away  what  a  void  they 
leave !  Those  who  take  their  places,  the  new  set, 
do  not  seem  to  fill  the  hill  at  all.  But  the  chances 
are  that  they  are  essentially  the  same  class  of  peo 
ple,  and  will  seem  as  permanent  and  important  to 
our  children  as  the  old  people  did  to  us. 

To  repeat  the  experience,  go  to  a  strange  town 
and  take  up  your  abode.  Everybody  seems  in  his 
proper  place,  there  are  no  breaks,  we  miss  nothing, 
the  social  structure  is  complete.  In  a  quarter  of  a 
century  go  back  to  the  place  again  ;  ruins  every 
where,  nearly  all  the  old  landmarks  gone,  and  a 
new  generation  upon  the  stage.  But  to  the  new 
comer  nothing  of  this  is  visible  ;  he  finds  every 
thing  established  and  in  order  as  we  first  found  it, 
It  is  so  in  life.  Our  children  are  the  newcomers 
who  do  not  and  cannot  go  behind  the  visible  scene. 

We  are  always  wondering  who  are  going  to  take 
the  place  of  the  great  poets,  the  great  preachers,  the 
great  statesmen  and  orators  who  are  passing  away. 
We  see  the  new  men,  but  they  are  not  the  worthy 
successors  of  these.  The  great  ones  are  all  old  or 
dead.  The  new  ones  we  know  not ;  they  cannot  be 
to  us  what  the  others  were  ;  they  cannot  be  the 
star  actors  in  the  drama  in  which  we  have  played 
a  part,  and  therefore  we  fancy  they  are  of  little 
account. 

Are  there  any  genuine  old  men  any  more  ?  Why, 
the  old  men,  the  real  ones,  are  all  dead  long  ago ; 
we  knew  them  in  our  youth ;  they  were  always  old, 


236  LITERAKY   VALUES 

old  from  the  foundations  of  the  world.  These  old 
men  of  to-day  are  mere  imitations ;  we  can  remem 
ber  when  they  were  not  old,  —  it  is  all  put  on.  The 
grandfathers  and  the  grandmothers  whom  we  knew 
—  think  of  any  present-day  grandparents  being  any 
thing  more  than  mere  counterfeits  of  them ! 

Hence,  also,  the  new  generation  always  go  astray 
according  to  the  old,  and  run  after  strange  gods. 
"  And  also  all  that  generation  were  gathered  unto 
their  fathers ;  and  there  arose  another  generation 
after  them,  which  knew  not  the  Lord,  nor  yet  the 
works  which  He  had  done  for  Israel." 

How  ready  we  are  to  believe  in  the  past  as  against 
the  present ;  to  believe  that  wonders  happened  then 
that  do  not  happen  now  !  Miracles  happened  then, 
but  not  now.  The  Divine  One  came  upon  earth 
then,  but  he  comes  no  more !  Our  whole  religion  is 
of  the  past.  How  hard  to  believe  in  a  present  reve 
lation,  or  to  believe  in  the  advantages  and  oppor 
tunities  of  the  present  hour  ! 

From  the  standpoint  of  each  of  us  the  sunrise 
and  the  sunset  seem  like  universal  facts ;  it  must 
be  evening  or  morning  throughout  the  world,  we 
think,  instead  of  just  here  on  our  meridian.  In  the 
same  way  we  are  prone  to  look  upon  youth  and  age 
as  commensurate  with  human  existence ;  the  world 
was  young  when  we  were  young,  and  it  grows  old 
as  we  grow  old;  youth  and  age  we  think  are  not 
subjective  experiences,  but  objective  realities. 

How  can  these  youths  here  by  our  side  feel  as  we 
have  felt,  see  what  we  have  seen,  have  the  same 


THE   SPELL   OF   THE   PAST  237 

joys  and  sorrows,  the  same  friends,  the  same  experi 
ences,  see  the  world  clad  in  the  same  hues,  feel  the 
same  ties  of  home,  of  father  and  mother,  of  school 
and  comrades,  when  all  the  world  is  so  changed,  — 
when  these  things  and  persons  that  were  so  much  to 
us  are  forever  past  ?  What  is  there  left  ?  How 
can  life  bring  to  them  what  it  brought  to  us  ?  But 
it  will.  The  same  story  is  told  over  and  over  to 
each  succeeding  generation,  and  each  finds  it  new 
and  true  for  them  alone.  As  we  find  our  past  in 
others,  so  our  youths  will  find  their  past  in  us,  and 
find  it  unique  and  peculiar. 

The  lives  of  men  are  like  the  sparks  that  shoot  up 
ward  ;  the  same  in  the  first  ages  as  in  the  last,  each 
blazing  its  brief  moment  as  it  leaps  forth,  some  at 
taining  a  greater  brilliancy  or  a  higher  flight  than 
others,  but  all  ending  at  last  in  the  same  black  ob 
scurity.  Or  they  are  like  the  waves  that  break  upon 
the  shore  ;  one  generation  following  swift  upon  the 
course  of  another,  repeating  the  same  evolutions, 
and  crumbling  and  vanishing  in  the  same  way. 

Probably  no  man  ever  lost  his  father  or  his 
mother  or  his  bosom  friend  without  feeling  that  no 
one  else  could  ever  have  had  just  such  an  experi 
ence.  Carlyle,  in  writing  to  Emerson  shortly  after 
each  had  lost  his  mother,  said,  "  You  too  have  lost 
your  good  old  mother,  who  stayed  with  you  like 
mine,  clear  to  the  last ;  alas,  alas,  it  is  the  oldest 
Law  of  Nature ;  and  it  comes  on  every  one  of  us 
with  a  strange  originality,  as  if  it  had  never  hap 
pened  before  !  " 


238  LITERARY   VALUES 

Speaking  of  these  two  rare  men,  each  so  attrac 
tive  to  the  other,  how  unlike  they  were  in  their  atti 
tude  toward  the  past,  —  the  one  with  that  yearning, 
wistful,  backward  glance,  bearing  the  burden  of  an 
Old  World  sorrow  and  remorse,  long  generations  of 
baffled,  repressed,  struggling  humanity  coming  to 
full  consciousness  in  him  ;  the  other  serene,  hopeful, 
optimistic,  with  the  spell  of  the  New  World  upon 
him,  turning  cheerfully  and  confidently  to  the  future ! 
Emerson  describes  himself  as  an  endless  seeker  with 
no  past  at  his  back.  He  seemed  to  have  no  regrets, 
no  wistful  retrospections.  His  mood  is  affirmative 
and  expectant.  The  power  of  the  past  was  not  upon 
him,  but  it  had  laid  its  hand  heavily  upon  his 
British  brother,  so  heavily  that  at  times  it  almost 
overpowered  him.  Carlyle's  dominant  note  is  dis 
tinctively  that  of  retrospection.  He  yearns  for  the 
old  days.  The  dead  call  to  him  from  their  graves. 
In  the  present  he  sees  little,  from  the  future  he 
expects  less ;  all  is  in  the  past.  How  he  magnifies 
it,  how  he  re-creates  it  and  reads  his  own  heroic 
temper  into  it !  The  twelfth  century  is  more  to 
him  than  the  nineteenth. 

It  is  true  that  the  present  time  is  more  or  less 
prosy,  vulgar,  commonplace  to  most  men ;  not  till 
we  have  lived  it  and  colored  it  with  our  own  experi 
ences  does  it  begin  to  draw  us.  This  seems  to  have 
been  preeminently  the  case  with  Carlyle  ;  he  was 
morbidly  sensitive  to  the  crude  and  prosy  present, 
and  almost  preternaturally  alive  to  the  glamour  of 
the  past.  What  men  had  done,  what  they  had 


THE   SPELL   OF  THE   PAST  239 

touched  with  their  hands,  what  they  had  colored 
with  their  lives,  that  was  sacred  to  him. 

Is  it  not  a  common  experience  that  as  we  grow 
old  there  comes  more  and  more  a  sense  of  solitude 
and  exposure  ?  Life  does  not  shut  us  in  and  house 
us  as  it  used  to  do.  One  by  one  the  barriers  and 
wind-breaks  are  taken  down,  and  we  become  more 
and  more  conscious  of  the  great  cosmic  void  that  en 
compasses  us.  Our  friends  were  walls  that  shielded 
us ;  see  the  gaps  in  their  ranks  now.  Our  parents 
were  like  the  roof  over  our  heads  ;  what  a  sense  of 
shelter  they  gave  us !  Then  our  hopes,  our  enthusi 
asms,  how  they  housed  us,  or  peopled  and  warmed 
the  void !  A  keen  living  interest  in  things,  what  an 
armor  against  the  shafts  of  time  is  that !  Always  on 
the  extreme  verge  of  time,  this  moment  that  now 
passes  is  the  latest  moment  of  all  the  eternities. 
New  time  always.  The  old  time  we  cannot  keep. 
The  old  house,  the  old  fields,  and  in  a  measure  the 
old  friends  may  be  ours,  but  the  atmosphere  that 
bathed  them  all,  the  sentiment  that  gave  to  them 
hue,  this  is  from  within  and  cannot  be  kept. 

Time  does  not  become  sacred  to  us  until  we  have 
lived  it,  until  it  has  passed  over  us  and  taken 
with  it  a  part  of  ourselves.  While  it  is  here  we 
value  it  not,  —  it  is  like  raw  material  not  yet  woven 
into  the  texture  and  pattern  of  our  lives  ;  but  the 
instant  it  is  gone  and  becomes  yesterday,  or  last 
spring,  or  last  year,  how  tender  and  pathetic  it  looks 
to  us  !  The  shore  of  time  !  I  think  of  it  as  a  shore 
constantly  pushing  out  into  the  infinite  sea,  stretch- 


240  LITERARY   VALUES 

ing  farther  and  farther  back  of  us  like  a  fair  land 
idealized  by  distance  into  which  we  may  not  again 
enter.  The  future  is  alien  and  unknown,  but  the 
past  is  a  part  of  ourselves.  So  many  ties  bind  us 
to  it.  The  past  is  the  cemetery  of  our  days.  There 
they  lie,  every  one  of  them.  Musingly  we  recall 
their  faces  and  the  gifts  they  brought  us,  —  the 
friends,  the  thoughts,  the  experiences,  the  joys,  the 
sorrows  ;  many  of  them  we  have  quite  forgotten,  but 
they  were  all  dear  to  us  once. 

If  our  friends  should  come  back  from  their  graves, 
could  they  be  what  they  once  were  to  us  ?  Not  un 
less  our  dead  selves  came  back  also.  How  precious 
and  pathetic  the  thought  of  father  and  mother  to  all 
men  ;  yet  the  enchantment  of  the  past  is  over  them 
also.  They  are  in  that  sacred  land  ;  their  faces 
shine  with  its  hallowed  light,  their  voices  come  to  us 
with  its  moving  tones. 

Pope  in  replying  to  a  letter  of  Swift's  said,  "  You 
ask  me  if  I  have  got  a  supply  of  new  friends  to  make 
up  for  those  who  are  gone  ?  I  think  that  impossi 
ble  ;  for  not  our  friends  only,  but  so  much  of  our 
selves  is  gone  by  the  mere  flux  and  course  of  years, 
that,  were  the  same  friends  restored  to  us,  we  could 
not  be  restored  to  ourselves  to  enjoy  them." 

In  view  of  this  power  and  attraction  of  the  past, 
what  do  we  mean  by  saying  we  would  not  live  our 
lives  over  again  ?  It  seems  to  be  an  almost  univer 
sal  feeling.  Cicero  says,  "  If  any  god  should  grant 
me,  that  from  this  period  of  life  I  should  become  a 
child  again  and  cry  in  the  cradle,  I  should  earnestly 


THE   SPELL   OF   THE   PAST  241 

refuse  it  j  "  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne  says,  "  For  my 
own  part  I  would  not  live  over  my  hours  past,  or 
begin  again  the  thread  of  my  days.'7  Sir  Thomas 
did  not  want  to  live  his  life  over  again,  for  fear  he 
would  live  it  worse  instead  of  better.  Cicero  did 
not  regret  that  he  had  lived,  but  intimates  that  he 
had  had  enough  of  this  life,  and  wanted  to  enter 
upon  that  new  arid  larger  existence.  "  Oh,  glorious 
day  !  when  I  shall  depart  to  that  divine  company 
and  assemblage  of  spirits,  and  quit  this  troubled  and 
polluted  scene !  " 

But  probably  the  true  reason  was  not  given  in 
either  case.  We  do  not  like  to  go  back.  We  are 
done  with  the  past ;  we  have  dropped  it,  sloughed 
it  off.  However  pleasing  it  may  be  in  the  retro 
spect,  however  fondly  we  may  dwell  upon  it,  our 
real  interest  is  in  the  present  and  the  future.  Prob 
ably  no  man  regrets  that  he  did  not  live  at  an  earlier 
period,  one  hundred,  five  hundred,  two  thousand 
years  ago ;  while  the  wish  that  our  existence  had 
been  deferred  to  some  future  age  is  quite  common. 
It  all  springs  from  this  instinctive  dislike  to  going 
back,  and  this  zest  for  the  unknown,  the  untried. 
There  are  many  experiences  in  the  lives  of  us  all 
that  we  would  like  to  repeat,  but  we  do  not  want  to 
go  back.  We  habitually  look  upon  life  as  a  journey  ; 
the  past  is  the  road  over  which  we  have  just  come  ; 
these  were  fair  countries  we  just  passed  through,  de 
lightful  experiences  we  had  at  this  point  and  at  that, 
but  we  do  not  want  to  turn  back  and  retrace  our 
steps.  There  is  more  or  less  a  feeling  of  satiety. 


242  LITERARY  VALUES 

We  want  to  go  ahead,  but  of  what  is  behind  us  we 
have  had  our  fill.  What  is  the  feeling  we  have 
when  we  meet  a  crowd  pressing  into  the  show  as  we 
are  coming  out,  or  when  we  see  our  eager  friends 
embarking  for  Europe  as  we  again  set  foot  on  our 
native  shore  ?  Do  we  not  have  a  kind  of  pity 
for  them  ?  Do  we  not  feel  that  we  have  taken  the 
cream  and  that  they  will  find  only  the  skimmed 
milk  ?  We  think  of  the  world  as  moving  on,  every 
body  and  everything  as  pressing  forward.  To  live 
our  lives  over  again  would  be  to  go  far  to  the  rear. 
It  would  be  to  give  up  the  present  and  all  that  it 
holds  ;  it  would  be  a  kind  of  death. 

Take  from  life  all  novelty,  newness,  surprise,  hope, 
expectation,  and  what  have  you  left  ?  Nothing  but 
a  cold  pancake,  which  even  the  dog  hesitates  over. 
One's  life  is  full  of  routine  and  repetition,  but  then 
it  is  always  a  new  day  ;  it  is  always  the  latest  time  ; 
we  are  on  the  crest  of  the  foremost  wave ;  we  are 
perpetually  entering  a  new  and  untried  land.  I  am 
told  that  lecturers  do  not  weary  of  repeating  the  same 
lecture  over  and  over,  because  they  always  have  a 
new  audience.  The  routine  of  our  lives  is  endur 
able  because,  as  it  were,  we  always  have  a  new  audi 
ence  ;  this  day  is  the  last  birth  of  time  and  its  face 
no  man  has  before  seen.  Life  becomes  stale  to  us 
when  we  cease  to  feel  any  interest  in  the  new  day, 
when  the  night  does  not  re-create  us,  when  we  are 
not  in  some  measure  born  afresh  each  morning.  As 
age  comes  on  we  become  less  and  less  capable  of  re 
newal  by  rest  and  sleep,  and  so  gradually  life  loses 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  PAST        243 

its  relish,  till  it  is  liable  to  become  a  positive  weari 
ness. 

Hence  in  saying  we  would  not  live  our  lives  over, 
we  are  only  emphasizing  this  reluctance  we  feel  at 
going  back,  at  taking  up  again  what  we  have  finished 
and  laid  down.  Time  translates  itself  in  the  mind 
as  space  ;  our  earlier  lives  seem  afar  off,  to  be  reached 
only  by  retracing  our  steps,  and  this  we  are  not  will 
ing  to  do.  In  the  only  sense  in  which  we  can  live 
our  lives  over,  namely,  in  the  lives  of  our  children, 
we  live  them  over  again  very  gladly.  We  begin  the 
game  again  with  the  old  zest. 

Who  would  not  have  his  youth  renewed  ?  What 
old  man  would  not  have  again,  if  he  could,  the  vigor 
and  elasticity  of  his  prime  ?  But  we  would  not  go 
back  for  them  ;  we  would  have  them  here  and  now, 
and  date  the  new  lease  from  this  moment.  It  argues 
no  distaste  for  life,  therefore,  no  deep  dissatisfaction 
with  it,  to  say  we  would  not  live  our  lives  over  again. 
We  do  live  them  over  again  from  day  to  day,  and 
from  year  to  year ;  but  the  shadow  of  the  past,  we 
would  not  enter  that.  Why  is  it  a  shadow  ?  Why 
this  pathos  of  the  days  that  are  gone  ?  Is  it  be 
cause,  as  Schopenhauer  insists,  life  has  more  pain 
than  pleasure  ?  But  it  is  all  beautiful,  the  painful 
experiences  as  well  as  the  pleasurable  ones ;  it  is  all 
bathed  in  a  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land,  and 
yet  we  see  it  as  it  were  through  a  mist  of  tears. 
There  is  no  pathos  in  the  future,  or  in  the  present; 
but  in  the  house  of  memory  there  are  more  sighs 
than  laughter. 


XVIII 

THE   SECRET   OF   HAPPINESS 

A  BOUT  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  how  often  I 
-"-  say  to  myself,  that  considering  life  as  a  whole, 
the  most  one  ought  to  expect  is  a  kind  of  negative 
happiness,  a  neutral  state,  the  absence  of  acute  or 
positive  unhappiness.  Neutral  tints  make  up  the 
great  background  of  nature,  and  why  not  of  life  ? 
Neutral  tints  wear  best  in  anything.  We  do  not 
tire  of  them.  How  much  even  in  the  best  books  is 
of  a  negative  or  neutral  character,  —  a  background 
upon  which  the  positive  beauty  is  projected.  A  kind 
of  tranquil,  wholesome  indifference,  with  now  and 
then  a  dash  of  positive  joy,  is  the  best  of  the  com 
mon  lot.  To  be  consciously  and  positively  happy 
all  the  while,  —  how  vain  to  expect  it !  'We  cannot 
walk  through  life  on  mountain  peaks.  Both  laugh 
ter  and  tears  we  know,  but  a  safe  remove  from  both 
is  the  average  felicity. 

Another  thought  which  often  occurs  to  me  is  that 
we  each  have  a  certain  capacity  for  happiness  or  un 
happiness  which  is  pretty  constant.  We  are  like 
lakes  or  ponds  which  have  their  level,  and  which  as 
a  rule  are  not  permanently  raised  or  lowered.  As 
things  go  in  this  world,  each  of  us  has  about  all  the 


THE   SECRET   OF   HAPPINESS  245 

happiness  he  has  the  capacity  for.  We  cannot  be 
permanently  set  up  or  cast  down.  A  healthful  na 
ture,  in  the  vicissitudes  of  experience,  is  not  made 
permanently  unhappy,  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  is  its 
water  level  permanently  raised.  Deplete  us  and  we 
fill  up  ;  flood  us  and  we  quickly  run  down.  We 
think  that  if  a  certain  event  were  to  come  to  pass, 
if  some  rare  good  fortune  should  befall  us,  our  stock 
of  happiness  would  be  permanently  increased,  but 
the  chances  are  that  it  would  not ;  after  a  time  we 
should  settle  back  to  the  old  everyday  level.  We 
should  get  used  to  the  new  conditions,  the  new  pros 
perity,  and  find  life  wearing  essentially  the  same 
tints  as  before.  Our  pond  is  fed  from  hidden  springs  ; 
happiness  is  from  within,  and  outward  circumstances 
have  but  little  power  over  it.  The  poor  man  thinks 
how  happy  he  would  be  with  the  possessions  of  his 
rich  neighbor,  but  it  is  one  of  the  commonplace  say 
ings  of  the  preacher  that  he  would  not  be.  Wealth 
would  not  change  his  nature.  His  wants,  his  long 
ings,  would  still  run  on  as  before.  It  would  be  high 
water  with  him  for  a  season,  but  it  could  not  last. 

I  have  been  told  that,  as  a  rule,  the  millionaires 
are  the  unhappiest  of  men.  Restless,  suspicious, 
sated,  ennuied,  they  are  like  a  sick  man  who  can 
find  no  position  in  which  he  can  rest.  Our  real 
and  necessary  wants  are  so  few  and  so  easily  met, 
—  food,  clothes,  shelter !  If  a  little  money  will 
bring  us  such  comfort,  what  will  not  riches  do  ? 
So  we  multiply  our  possessions  many  fold,  hoping 
thereby  to  multiply  our  happiness.  But  it  does  not 


246  LITERARY  VALUES 

work,  or  works  inversely.  Do  you  suppose  the  mil 
lionaire's  little  girl  has  any  more  pleasure  with  her 
hundred-dollar  doll  than  your  washerwoman's  child 
has  with  her  rag  baby  ?  And  what  would  not  the 
millionaire  himself  give  if  he  could  eat  his  rich  din 
ner  with  the  relish  the  day  laborer  has  in  eating  his ! 

The  great  depressor  and  destroyer  of  happiness  is 
death ;  but  from  this  blow,  too,  a  healthful  nature 
recovers.  The  broken  and  crushed  plant  rises  again. 
The  scar  remains,  but  in  the  tissue  beneath  runs  the 
same  old  blood. 

It  is  undoubtedly  true,  however,  that  as  time  wears 
on,  life  becomes  of  a  soberer  hue.  We  are  young  but 
once,  and  need  not  wish  to  be  young  more  than  once. 
There  is  the  happiness  of  youth,  there  is  the  happi 
ness  of  manhood,  there  is  the  happiness  of  old  age, 
—  each  period  wearing  a  hue  peculiar  to  itself.  One 
of  the  illusions  of  life,  however,  which  it  is  hard 
to  shake  off,  is  the  fancying  we  were  happier  in  the 
past  than  we  are  in  the  present.  The  past  has  such 
power  to  hallow  and  heighten  effects  !  In  the  dis 
tance  the  course  we  have  traveled  looks  smooth  and 
inviting.  The  present  moment  is  always  the  lowest 
point  in  the  circle  ;  it  is  that  part  of  the  wheel  which 
touches  the  ground.  Those  days  in  the  past  that  so 
haunt  our  memory  and  that  seem  invested  with  a 
charm  and  a  significance  that  is  unknown  to  the 
present,  —  how  shall  we  teach  ourselves  that  it^is  all 
a  trick  of  the  imagination,  the  result  of  the  medium 
through  which  they  are  seen,  and  that  they,  too, 
were  once  the  present,  and  were  as  prosy  and  com 
monplace  as  the  moment  that  now  is  ? 


THE   SECRET   OF   HAPPINESS  247 

It  is  equally  a  mistake  to  suppose  we  shall  be  hap 
pier  to-morrow  or  next  day  than  we  are  to-day.  When 
the  future  comes  it  will  then  be  the  present,  no  longer 
a  matter  of  imagination,  but  of  actual  experience. 
This  prosy,  care-burdened  self  will  be  there,  and  the 
rainbow  tints  will  still  be  in  the  distance. 

The  man  who  is  hampered  and  constrained  by  the 
circumstances  of  his  life,  thinks  his  happiness  would 
be  greatly  augmented  by  greater  freedom,  if  he  could 
go  here  or  there,  do  this  or  that.  But  the  chances 
are  that  such  would  not  be  the  case.  For  instance, 
when  I  see  a  man  going  up  and  down  the  country 
looking  for  a  place  to  settle,  to  build  himself  a  home, 
and  when  I  think  of  my  own  experience  in  that 
direction,  I  say,  happy  is  the  man  whom  circum 
stances  take  by  the  collar  and  set  down  without  any 
choice  on  his  part,  in  a  particular  place,  and  say  to 
him,  "  There,  abide  there,  and  earn  thy  bread  there." 
He  is  a  free  man  then,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem, 
—  free  to  make  the  most  of  his  opportunities  without 
regret.  He  is  not  the  victim  of  his  own  whims  or 
follies.  He  is  not  forever  tormenting  himself  with 
the  notion  that  he  has  made  a  mistake,  that  if  he  had 
gone  here  or  there,  he  would  have  been  happier. 
Now  he  accepts  the  inevitable  and  makes  the  most 
of  it.  He  goes  to  work  with  the  more  heart  be 
cause  he  has  no  choice.  He  wastes  no  time  in  re 
grets,  he  makes  no  comparisons  that  disturb  him, 
but  devotes  all  his  strength  to  getting  all  the  satis 
faction  out  of  life  that  is  possible. 

If  one  were  to  make  a  choice  of  going  on  foot 


248  LITERARY  VALUES 

while  other  people  had  the  privilege  of  wings,  he 
would  be  haunted  by  the  fear  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake,  and  as  he  trudged  along  in  the  mire,  doubt 
less  would  envy  the  people  in  the  air  above  him ; 
but  if  he  had  no  choice  in  the  matter  and  was  com 
pelled  to  go  afoot  through  no  fault  of  his,  he  would 
thank  his  stars  that  his  fate  was  no  worse.  When 
choice  comes  in  and  we  can  elect  this  or  that,  then 
the  door  for  regret,  for  unhappiness,  is  opened.  We 
do  not  mourn  because  we  were  born  in  this  place 
and  not  that,  but  if  we  had  been  consulted  we  might 
fancy  some  cause  of  regret. 

Yet  there  is  a  condition  or  circumstance  that  has 
a  greater  bearing  upon  the  happiness  of  life  than  any 
other.  What  is  it  ?  I  have  hardly  hinted  at  it  in 
the  foregoing  remarks.  It  is  one  of  the  simplest 
things  in  the  world  and  within  reach  of  all.  If  this 
secret  were  something  I  could  put  up  at  auction,  what 
a  throng  of  bidders  I  should  have,  and  what  high 
ones  !  People  would  come  from  all  parts  of  the 
earth  to  bid  upon  it.  Only  the  wise  ones  can  guess 
what  it  is.  Some  might  say  it  is  health,  or  money, 
or  friends,  or  this  or  that  possession,  but  you  may 
have  all  these  things  and  not  be  happy.  You  may 
have  fame  and  power,  and  not  be  happy.  I  main 
tain  there  is  one  thing  more  necessary  to  a  happy 
life  than  any  other,  though  health  and  money  and 
friends  and  home  are  all  important.  That  one  thing 
is  —  what  ?  The  sick  man  will  say  health  j  the 
poor  man,  wealth  ;  the  ambitious  man,  power ;  the 
scholar,  knowledge  ;  the  overworked  man,  rest. 


THE   SECRET   OF   HAPPINESS  249 

Without  the  one  thing  I  have  in  mind,  none  of 
these  things  would  long  help  their  possessors  to  be 
happy.  We  could  not  long  be  happy  without  food 
or  drink  or  clothes  or  shelter,  but  we  may  have  all 
these  things  to  perfection  and  still  want  the  prime 
condition  of  happiness.  It  is  often  said  that  a  con 
tented  mind  is  the  first  condition  of  happiness,  but 
what  is  the  first  condition  of  a  contented  mind  ? 
You  will  be  disappointed  when  I  tell  you  what  this 
all-important  thing  is,  —  it  is  so  common,  so  near  at 
hand,  and  so  many  people  have  so  much  of  it  and 
yet  are  not  happy.  They  have  too  much  of  it,  or 
else  the  kind  that  is  not  best  suited  to  them.  What 
is  the  best  thing  for  a  stream  ?  It  is  to  keep  mov 
ing.  If  it  stops,  it  stagnates.  So  the  best  thing 
for  a  man  is  that  which  keeps  the  currents  going,  — 
the  physical,  the  moral,  and  the  intellectual  currents. 
Hence  the  secret  of  happiness  is  —  something  to  do ; 
some  congenial  work.  Take  away  the  occupation  of 
all  men,  and  what  a  wretched  world  it  would  be ! 
Half  of  it  would  commit  suicide  in  less  than  ten 
days. 

Few  persons  realize  how  much  of  their  happiness, 
such  as  it  is,  is  dependent  upon  their  work,  upon 
the  fact  that  they  are  kept  busy  and  not  left  to  feed 
upon  themselves.  Happiness  comes  most  to  persons 
who  seek  her  least,  and  think  least  about  her.  It 
is  not  an  object  to  be  sought ;  it  is  a  state  to  be  in 
duced.  It  must  follow  and  not  lead.  It  must  over 
take  you,  and  not  you  overtake  it.  How  important 
is  health  to  happiness,  yet  the  best  promoter  of 
health  is  something  to  do. 


250  LITERARY   VALUES 

Blessed  is  the  man  who  has  some  congenial  work, 
some  occupation  in  which  he  can  put  his  heart,  and 
which  affords  a  complete  outlet  to  all  the  forces 
there  are  in  him. 

A  man  does  not  want  much  time  to  think  about 
himself.  Too  much  thought  of  the  past  and  its 
shadows  overwhelms ;  too  much  thought  of  the  pre 
sent  dissipates  ;  too  much  thought  of  the  future  un 
settles.  I  find  that  if  a  horse  stands  too  much  in 
the  stable,  with  too  little  work,  he  gets  the  crib-bite. 
Too  little  work  makes  a  kind  of  windsucker  of  a 
man. 

I  recently  had  a  letter  from  a  friend  who,  from 
having  rented  his  farm  for  a  number  of  years,  had  had 
too  much  leisure.  In  this  letter  he  writes  how  well 
and  happy  he  has  been  during  the  season;  he  has 
enjoyed  existence,  — the  gods  have  smiled  upon  him 
and  he  has  found  life  worth  living.  Then  he  told 
me,  not  by  way  of  explanation,  but  as  a  matter 
of  news,  that  his  head  man  had  been  disabled  two 
months  before,  and  the  care  of  the  farm  had  de 
volved  upon  himself  ;  more  than  that,  he  was  reno 
vating  a  place  he  had  recently  bought,  remodeling 
the  house,  shaping  the  grounds,  etc.  Then  I  knew 
why  he  had  been  so  unusually  well  and  happy.  He 
had  had  something  to  do  into  which  he  could  throw 
himself,  and  it  had  set  all  the  currents  of  his  being 
going  again. 

About  the  same  time  I  had  a  letter  from  another 
farmer  friend  who  told  me  how  busy  he  was,  —  so 
many  things  pressing  that  there  was  need  of  his 


THE   SECRET  OF   HAPPINESS  251 

going  in  two  or  more  directions  at  once,  not  to  get 
rich,  but  to  make  both  ends  meet.  And  yet  he 
was  so  happy  !  (Therefore  he  was  so  happy,  say  I.) 
Troubles  and  trials,  he  says,  are  few  and  soon  over 
with,  while  the  .pleasures  are  past  all  enumeration. 
"There  is  so  much  to  be  enjoyed,  one  never  gets  to 
the  end  of  it.'7 

This  man  was  too  busy  to  be  unhappy  ;  he  had  no 
time  for  ennui  or  the  blues.  You  see  he  did  not 
overindulge  in  the  luxury  of  leisure.  He  was  com 
pelled  to  take  it  sparingly,  hence  it  always  tasted 
good  to  him.  The  fruit  of  the  tree  of  life  of  which 
we  must  eat  very  sparingly  is  leisure.  Too  much 
of  it,  and  it  turns  to  gall  on  our  tongue.  A  little 
too  much  of  those  things  which  we  think  will  make 
us  happy,  and  we  are  cloyed,  and  miserable  indeed. 
The  boy  would  like  to  dine  entirely  upon  pie  or 
sweetmeats,  and  we  all  need  the  lesson  that  the  des 
sert  of  life  is  to  be  taken  sparingly.  Because  money 
is  good,  do  not,  therefore,  think  that  riches  are  an 
unmixed  blessing  ;  because  leisure  is  sweet  to  you, 
do  not,  therefore,  imagine  you  would  be  happy  with 
nothing  to  do.  My  correspondent  was  too  busy  and 
too  poor  to  be  cloyed  or  sated,  too  much  the  victim 
of  circumstances  to  be  self-accusing  and  repining. 
He  had  no  choice  but  to  go  on  and  make  the  most 
of  things. 

I  overheard  an  old  man  and  a  young  man  talking 
at  the  station.  The  young  man  was  telling  of  an 
old  uncle  of  his  who  had  sold  his  farm  and  retired 
to  the  village.  He  had  enjoyed  going  to  the  vil- 


252  LITERARY   VALUES 

lage,  so  now  he  thought  he  would  take  his  fill  of  it. 
But  it  soon  cloyed  upon  him.  He  had  nothing  to 
do.  Every  night  he  would  say  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
"  Well,  another  day  is  through,"  and  each  morning 
wondered  how  he  could  endure  the  day. 

In  every  village  up  and  down  the  older  parts  of 
the  country  there  are  several  such  men ;  every  day 
is  a  hurden  to  them  because  they  have  nothing  to 
do.  They  drift  aimlessly  up  and  down  the  street ; 
they  loiter  in  the  post-office  or  lounge  in  the  grocery 
store  or  hotel  bar-room,  —  no  comfort  to  themselves 
and  no  use  to  the  world.  With  what  longing  they 
must  look  upon  the  farmers  that  drive  in  to  get  a 
horse  shod  or  to  do  a  little  trading  and  then  drive 
briskly  away !  How  the  vision  of  the  farm,  the 
cattle,  the  sheep,  the  barn,  the  growing  crops,  the 
early  morning,  the  sowing,  the  planting,  the  harvest 
ing  must  haunt  them !  Nothing  to  do  !  When 
they  were  driven  and  oppressed  with  work  they  had 
thought,  What  pleasure  to  be  free  from  all  this,  to 
be  at  liberty  to  go  and  come  as  one  likes,  with  no 
cows  to  milk  or  chores  to  do  !  Now  they  probably 
have  not  a  hen  or  a  dog  to  comfort  them.  These 
men  do  not  live  out  more  than  half  their  latter 
days.  Nature  has  no  use  for  them,  and  they  soon 
drop  away ;  whereas  their  neighbors  who  stick  to 
the  farm  and  keep  the  currents  going,  reach  a  much 
more  advanced  period  of  life. 

Bust  and  rot  and  mildew  come  to  unused  things. 
An  empty  and  deserted  house,  how  quickly  it  goes 
to  decay  !  and  an  unoccupied  man,  how  is  his  guard 


THE   SECRET   OF   HAPPINESS  253 

down  on  every  side !  When  the  will  relaxes  or  is 
not  stimulated,  the  physical  powers  relax  also  and 
their  power  to  ward  off  disease  is  greatly  lessened. 
Among  men  of  all  kinds  who  have  retired  from 
active  life  the  mortality  should  be  and  doubtless  is 
much  greater  than  among  men  of  the  same  age  who 
stick  to  their  lifelong  occupations.  Here  is  a  farmer 
just  died  at  eighty-eight  who  managed  his  farm  till 
within  a  few  months  of  his  death  ;  here  is  his  neigh 
bor,  ten  years  younger,  who  retired  to  the  village 
several  years  ago,  now  wandering  about  more  than 
half  demented. 

Oh,  the  blessedness  of  work,  of  life-giving  and  life- 
sustaining  work  !  The  busy  man  is  the  happy  man  ; 
the  idle  man  is  the  unhappy.  When  you  feel  blue 
and  empty  and  disconsolate,  and  life  seems  hardly 
worth  living,  go  to  work  with  your  hands,  —  delve, 
hoe,  chop,  saw,  churn,  thrash,  anything  to  quicken 
the  pulse  and  dispel  the  fumes.  The  blue  devils  can 
be  hoed  under  in  less  than  half  an  hour ;  ennui  can 
not  stand  the  bucksaw  fifteen  minutes ;  the  whole 
outlook  may  be  brightened  in  a  brief  time  by  turn 
ing  your  hands  to  something  you  can  do  with  a  will. 

I  speak  from  experience.  A  few  years  ago  I  found 
my  life  beginning  to  stagnate  ;  I  discovered  that  I 
was  losing  my  interest  in  things.  I  was  out  of  sorts 
both  physically  and  mentally  ;  sleep  was  poor,  diges 
tion  was  poor,  and  my  days  began  to  wear  too  som 
bre  a  tinge.  There  was  no  good  reason  for  it  that  I 
could  perceive  except  that  I  was  not  well  and  fully 
occupied.  I  had  too  much  leisure. 


254  LITERARY   VALUES 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  Go  to  work.  Get  more 
land  and  become  a  farmer  in  earnest.  Exchange 
the  penholder  for  the  crowbar  and  the  hoe-handle. 
I  already  had  a  few  acres  of  land  and  had  been  a 
fruitgrower  in  a  small  way ;  why  should  I  not 
double  my  possessions  and  plant  a  vineyard  that 
promised  some  returns  ?  So  I  began  to  cast  covet 
ous  eyes  upon  some  land  adjoining  me  that  was  for 
sale.  I  nibbled  at  it  very  shyly  at  first.  I  walked 
over  it  time  after  time  and  began  to  note  its  good 
points.  Then  I  began  to  pace  it  off.  I  found 
pleasure  and  occupation  even  in  this.  Then  I  took 
a  line  and  began  to  measure  it.  I  measured  off  a 
pretty  good  slice  and  fancied  it  already  my  own. 
This  tasted  so  good  to  me  that  I  measured  off  a 
larger  slice  and  then  a  still  larger,  till  I  found  that 
nothing  short  of  the  whole  field  would  satisfy  me  ; 
I  must  go  to  the  fence  and  take  a  clean  strip  one 
field  broad  from  the  road  to  the  river. 

This  I  did,  thus  doubling  the  nine  acres  I  already 
possessed.  It  was  winter  ;  I  could  hardly  wait  till 
spring  to  commence  operations  upon  the  new  pur 
chase.  Already  I  felt  the  tonic  effect  of  those  nine 
acres.  They  were  a  stimulus,  an  invitation,  and  a 
challenge.  To  subdue  them  and  lick  them  into  shape 
and  plant  them  with  choice  grapes  and  currants  and 
raspberries,  —  the  mere  thought  of  it  toned  me  up 
and  improved  my  sleep. 

Before  the  snow  was  all  off  the  ground  in  March 
we  set  to  work  under-draining  the  moist  and  springy 
places.  My  health  and  spirits  improved  daily.  I 


THE   SECRET   OF   HAPPINESS  255 

seemed  to  be  underdraining  my  own  life  and  carry 
ing  off  the  stagnant  water,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
land.  Then  a  lot  of  ash  stumps  and  brush,  an  old 
apple  orchard,  and  a  great  many  rocks  and  large 
stones  were  to  be  removed  before  the  plough  could 
be  set  going. 

With  what  delight  I  saw  this  work  go  forward,  and 
I  bore  my  own  part  in  it !  I  had  not  seen  such  elec 
tric  April  days  for  years  ;  I  had  not  sat  down  to 
dinner  with  such  relish  and  satisfaction  for  the  past 
decade ;  I  had  not  seen  the  morning  break  with 
such  anticipations  since  I  was  a  boy.  The  clear, 
bright  April  days,  the  great  river  dimpling  and  shin 
ing  there,  the  arriving  birds,  the  robins  laughing,  the 
high-holes  calling,  the  fox  sparrows  whistling,  the 
blackbirds  gurgling,  and  the  hillside  slope  where  we 
were  at  work,  —  what  delight  I  had  in  it  all,  and 
what  renewal  of  life  it  brought  me  !  I  found  the  best 
way  to  see  the  spring  come  was  to  be  in  the  field  at 
work.  You  are  then  in  your  proper  place,  and  the 
genial  influences  steal  in  upon  you  and  envelop  you 
unawares.  You  glance  up  from  your  work,  and  the 
landscape  is  suddenly  brimming  with  beauty.  There 
is  more  joy  and  meaning  in  the  voices  of  the  birds 
than  you  ever  before  noticed.  You  do  not  have 
time  to  exhaust  the  prospect  or  to  become  sated  with 
nature,  but  feel  her  constantly  as  a  stimulating  pre 
sence.  Out  of  the  corners  of  your  eyes  and  by  a 
kind  of  indirection  you  see  the  subtle  and  renewing 
spirits  of  the  season  at  work. 

Before  April  was  finished,  the  plough  had  done 


256  LITERARY   VALUES 

its  perfect  work,  and  in  early  May  the  vines  and 
plants  were  set.  Then  followed  the  care  and  culti 
vation  of  them  during  the  summer,  and  the  pruning 
and  training  of  them  the  subsequent  season,  all  of 
which  has  been  a  delight  to  me.  Indeed  the  new 
vineyard  has  become  almost  a  part  of  myself.  I  walk 
through  it  with  the  most  intimate  and  personal  re 
gard  for  every  vine.  I  know  how  they  came  there. 
I  owe  them  a  debt  of  gratitude.  They  have  done 
more  for  me  than  a  trip  to  Europe  or  to  California 
could  have  done.  If  it  brings  me  no  other  returns, 
the  new  lot  already  has  proved  one  of  the  best  in 
vestments  I  ever  made  in  my  life. 

Oh,  the  blessedness  of  motion,  of  a  spur  to  ac 
tion,  of  a  current  in  one's  days,  of  something  to 
stimulate  the  will,  to  help  reach  a  decision,  to  carry 
down  stream  the  waste  and  debris  of  one's  life ! 
Hardly  a  life  anywhere  so  befouled  or  stagnant,  but 
it  would  clear  and  renew  itself,  if  the  currents  were 
set  going  by  the  proper  kind  and  amount  of  honest 
work ! 


INDEX 


INDEX 


ADDISON,  JOSEPH,  53,  69, 71. 

Alcott,  A.  Bronson,  76. 

American  literature,  art  in,  16. 
See  also  Literature. 

Amiel,  Henri  Frederic,  on 
Renan,  65;  on  Cherbuliez, 
188  ;  his  Journal,  '229 ;  quota 
tion  from,  188. 

Analogy,  a  frequent  form  of 
argument,  27;  between  man 
and  nature,  27, 28, 48-50 ;  met 
aphors,  28-31  ;  legitimate  uses 
of,  31, 32 ;  accidental  and  es 
sential,  32 ;  immortality  in, 
32-39;  in  theology,  39;  false 
and  true,  39-44;  between 
mind  and  body,  44,  45 ;  in  the 
physical  world,  45-47 ;  be 
tween  art  and  nature,  50, 54 ; 
rhetorical  and  scientific,  51. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  34,  50,  53, 59, 
70,  78,  79;  as  a  critic,  90-92, 
228 ;  93,  96 ;  greatest  as  a  lit 
erary  critic,  97 ;  his  Thyrsis, 
103;  his  aristocratic  ideals, 
112-114, 118 ;  123, 124,  133,  184, 
189,  206,  210 ;  his  Literature 
and  Dogma,  228,  229 ;  quota 
tions  from,  53,  93. 

Art,  disinterestedness  of,  134, 
135 ;  universality  of,  135-142 ; 
disinterestedness  not  indif- 
ferentism  in,  142-148;  treat 
ment  of  vice  and  sin  in,  US- 
ISO. 

Bacon,  Francis,  205, 218. 
Bagehot,  Walter,  26 ;  quotation 

from,  26. 

Barante,  Baron  de,  104. 
Baudelaire,  Charles,  20. 
Birds,  dusting  and  bathing,  174. 
Books,   the   enduring,  3;   the 

re-reading  of,  216-231.     See 

also  Literature. 


Boswell,  James,  his  Life  of 
Samuel  Johnson,  225. 

Bronte,  Charlotte,  103. 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  his  Re- 
ligio  Medici,  229 ;  on  the  past, 
241 ;  quotation  from,  241. 

Browning,  Robert,  2 ;  his  How 
they  brought  the  Good  News 
from  Ghent  to  Aix,  70,  166; 
114,  184. 

Brunetiere,  Ferdinand,  71,  85 ; 
his  criticism,  87 ;  90,  96,  104, 
107, 109 ;  a  critic  of  the  aristo 
cratic  type,  112, 118. 

Bunting,  snow  (Passerina 
nivalis),  174. 

Burney,  Fanny,  62. 

Butler,  Joseph,  33,  34. 

Byron,  Lord,  131, 141 ;  eloquent 
but  not  truly  poetical,  165; 
an  example  of  his  eloquence, 
166  •,  quotation  from,  166. 

Campbell,  Thomas,  166 :  his  To 
the  Rainbow,  166 ;  182. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  2;  his  defini 
tion  of  poetry,  10;  his  criti 
cism,  89,  90 ;  119 ;  his  vehe 
mence  and  enthusiasm,  123, 
124 ;  his  French  Revolution, 
164 ;  196 ;  his  service  to  most 
readers  more  moral  than  in. 
tellectual,  223  ;  his  Past  and 
Present,  224 ;  his  Latter-Day 
Pamphlets,  224  ;  his  Life  of 
Sterling,  224;  his  essays  on 
Scott,  Burns,  and  Johnson, 
224;  his  Frederick,  224;  his 
Reminiscences,  224  ;  his  Sar 
tor  Resartus,  224;  handi 
capped  by  his  style,  224,  225 ; 
to  Emerson  on  the  loss  of  his 
mother,  237;  his  attitude 
toward  the  past,  238  ;  quota 
tions  from,  164,  165,  237. 


260 


INDEX 


Catholicism,  125. 

Cats,  176. 

Chateaubriand,  93. 

Cherbuliez,  Victor,  188. 

Chickadee  (Parus  atrioapil- 
his),  173. 

Cicero,  quotations  from,  240, 
241. 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  119. 

Collins,  Wilkie,  8. 

Conversations  with  Goethe,1!^. 

Cowley,  Abraham,  his  essays, 
220. 

Criticism,  the  scope,  aims,  and 
functions  of,  80-84;  vital 
truth  the  important  thing  in, 
84;  personality  and  impres 
sionism  in,  85-89 ;  inspiration 
more  important  than  judg 
ment  in,  89-92;  diversity  of 
critical  judgments,  92-95 ;  the 
inner  self  of  the  critic  a  ne 
cessary  element  in,  95,  96 ; 
importance  of  the  power  of 
expression  in,  96-98;  relativ 
ity  of  truth  in,  98-100;  sub 
jective  and  objective,  100- 
104;  individual  taste  in,  104, 
105;  catholicity  in,  105-108; 
democratic  and  aristocratic, 
109-115;  good  and  bad  taste 
in,  116-118;  the  doctrinaire 
in,  118-126;  the  most  produc 
tive  attitude  in,  127-132 ;  pro 
fessional,  127, 128, 130 ;  predi 
lection  in,  132 ;  antipathy  in, 
132,  133. 

Cuckoo,  European,  176, 178. 

Dana,  Richard  Henry,  Jr.,  his 
Two  Years  Before  the  Mast, 
3,  226,  227. 

Dante,  209. 

Darwin,  Charles,  211. 

Defoe,  Daniel,  3. 

Democracy,  in  literature,  109- 
115;  modern  growth  of,  151, 
152;  its  effect  upon  litera 
ture,  152-156. 

Democratic  Criticism,  109. 

Demosthenes,  162. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  78,  163; 
his  Philosophy  of  Roman 
History,  163 ;  210  ;  quotation 
from,  163, 164. 

Dickens,  Charles,  5,  7;  his  Tale 
of  Two  Cities,  225,  226;  a 


matchless  mimic  with  nodeep 

seriousness,  225, 226. 
Didacticism,  142. 
Distinction,  113-115. 
Dowden,  Edward,  124. 
Dryden,  John,  92. 

Earthworm,  Gilbert  White's 
observations  on,  178. 

Eckermann,  Johann  Peter,  his 
Conversations  with  Goethe, 
225. 

Eliot,  George,  6,119, 121. 

Eloquence,  its  relation  to  poe 
try,  161-167. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  l,  19, 
24,  27,  28;  on  individuality, 
53,  54 ;  59,  76,  78,  105,  106,  119 ; 
as  a  poet,  122 ;  as  a  critic,  122, 
123 ;  124, 132, 136  ;  his  Nature, 
164;  an  example  of  poetic 
prose  from,  164 ;  181, 182, 184 ; 
his  appeal  chiefly  to  youth 
and  early  manhood,  191 ; 
never  ceased  to  be  a  clergy 
man,  192;  no  prosaic  side, 
192 ;  his  sympathy  for  ideas 
rather  than  for  men  or 
things,  193,  194;  his  inborn 
radicalism,  194,  195;  ab 
stract  in  his  aim  and  con 
crete  in  his  methods.  196; 
his  suggestiveness,  205 ;  223, 
228-230,  237;  his  attitude 
toward  the  past,  238 ;  quota 
tions  from,  24,  53,  54,  59,  164, 
193-195. 

English  poetry,  165. 

English  writers,  7,  63. 

Evans,  Mary  Ann  (George 
Eliot),  6, 119, 121. 

Everett,  Edward,  5. 

Family  tree,  the,  47,  48. 

Fashions,  2. 

Ferguson,  Charles,  his  Reli 
gion  of  Democracy,  quota 
tions  from,  210,  211. 

Fern-owl,  175. 

Fiction,  values  in,  6,  7 ;  a  finer 
but  not  a  greater  art  to-day 
than  formerly,  60,  61. 

Fieldfare,  174. 

Flaubert,  Gustave,  19. 

France,  Anatole,  112. 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  his  Auto 
biography,  226. 


INDEX 


261 


Freeman,  Edward  Augustus,  5. 
French  art,  146. 
French  criticism,  97. 
French  poetry,  more  eloquent 

than  poetic,  165. 
French  writers,  modern,  7,  63. 
Froude,  James  Anthony,  5 ;  his 

style,  68. 

George,  Henry,  as  a  writer,  9. 

German  writers,  7. 

Gibbon,  Edward,  78, 163. 

Gladden,  Kev.  Washington,  bis 
Art  and  Morality,  143,  144; 
quotation  from,  143. 

God,  the  old  and  the  new  ideas 
of,  152. 

Goethe,  Conversations  with, 
225. 

Goethe,  Johann  Wolfgang  von, 
93,  123,  127;  his  Sorrows  of 
Young  Werther,  138  ;  141 ;  on 
poetical  and  unpoetical  ob 
jects,  157  ;  on  Byron,  165 ;  184 ; 
quotations  from,  141, 157. 

Gosse,  Edmund,  his  Questions 
at  Issue,  153, 154  ;  quotation 
from,  154. 

Grant,  Gen.  Ulysses  Simpson, 
his  Memoirs,  5,  227 ;  an  ele 
mental  man,  6 ;  his  greatness 
of  the  democratic  type,  113, 
114;  his  commonness,  115; 
his  lack  of  vanity,  227. 

Gray,  Thomas,  53,  103;  his 
Elegy  in  a  Country  Church 
yard,  137. 

Greeks,  the,  their  view  of  Na 
ture,  203. 

Grimm,  Hermann,  93. 

Grouse,  ruffed  (Bonasa  um- 
bellus),  174. 

Guizot,  Fran9ois  Pierre  Guil- 
laume,  119. 

Halleck,  Fitz  -  Greene,  his 
Marco  Bozzaris,  166. 

Happiness,  negative  happiness 
the  most  one  ought  to  expect, 
244;  one's  capacity  for  hap 
piness  not  affected  perma 
nently  by  adventitious  cir 
cumstances,  244-248;  conge 
nial  work  essential  to,  248- 
256. 

Harrison,  Frederic,  25,  61. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  7;  the 


most  suggestive  of  our  ro 
mancers,  205. 

Heine,  Heinrich,  80. 

Hennequin,  his  Scientific  Crit 
icism,  109. 

Heronry,  177. 

Hewlett,  Maurice,  25,  26 ;  quo 
tation  from,  25. 

Higginson,  Thomas  Went- 
worth,  72. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  47, 
79;  his  Old  Ironsides,  166; 
his  Autocrat  of  the  Break 
fast-Table,  219 ;  his  real  ideas 
and  sham  ideas,  219 ;  his  lack 
of  deep  seriousness,  220. 

Honey  dew,  178. 

Howells,  William  Dean,  5,  7, 
72, 81 ;  his  Criticism  and  Fic 
tion,  82,  83,  109 ;  206 ;  quota 
tion  from,  83. 

Hugo,  Victor,  103,  119 ;  his 
moral  earnestness,  189. 

Hume,  David,  elegance  of  his 
style,  77 ;  on  the  eloquence  of 
Demosthenes,  162;  on  Cow- 
ley  and  Parnell,  220 ;  quota 
tions  from,  77, 162. 

Hunt,  Leigh,  131. 

Huxley,  Thomas  Henry,  51, 78, 
119. 

Ibsen,  Henrik,  149. 
Immorality  in  art  and  litera 
ture,  148-150. 
Immortality,    false   analogies 

of,  32-39. 
Indian,  the,  Thoreau  on,  198, 

199. 
Indifferentism,    142,  143,    146- 

148. 

Individualism,  125, 126. 
Individuality  in  literature,  53- 

60. 

Institutionalism,  125, 126. 
Irvine,  J.  P.,   quotation  from 

his  poem  The  Lightning  Ex> 

press,  159. 

James,  Henry,  on  Whitman's 
letters,  4 ;  5,  69, 121 ;  style  of 
his  later  works,  206. 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  Lord,  131. 

Jesse's  Gleanings  in  Natural 
History,  179. 

Joan  of  Arc,  73. 

Johnson,    Charles   Frederick, 


262 


INDEX 


his  Elements  of  Literary 
Criticism,  109. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  76 :  his  Ram 
bler,  76 ;  his  criticism,  90 ;  on 
Dry  den,  92;  96,  103,  112,  172, 
205  ;  Boswell's  Life  of,  225. 

Jonson,  Ben,  a  bit  of  his  prose, 
26. 

Keats,  John,  11 ;  his  Ode  to  a 
Nightingale,  75. 

Kidd,  Benjamin,  his  Social  Ev 
olution,  9. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  93; 
lacking  in  moral  stress  and 
fervor,  124 ;  132,  184. 

Lemaitre,  Jules,  87. 

Life,  the  earlier  years  of  one's, 
231-243. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  his  Gettys 
burg  speech,  5 ;  an  elemental 
man,  6 ;  his  greatness  of  the 
democratic  type,  113,  114  ; 
his  commonness,  115, 116. 

Literature,  the  enduring  in,  1- 
3, 216-231 ;  values  in,  4-9 ;  de 
finitions  of,  9-13 ;  style  in,  14, 
52-79 ;  truth  in,  14, 15 ;  moral 
ity  and  art  in,  16 ;  art  in,  17- 
20 ;  the  teaching  of,  20-25  ; 
good  and  bad  taste  in,  26, 
116-118 ;  democracy  in,  109- 
115;  the  doctrinaire  in,  118- 
126;  art  vs.  didacticism  in, 
135-142,  144-150;  an  end  in 
and  of  itself,  140 ;  immorality 
in,  148-150;  effect  of  demo 
cracy  upon,  152-156  ;  hurnan- 
itarianism  in,  156 ;  the  me 
chanical  and  industrial  age 
in,  157-160 ;  lucidity  in,  180- 
182  ;  appreciation  in  the 
reading  of,  182-185 ;  neces 
sity  of  something  more  than 
style  in,  186-190 ;  Nature  in, 
202-204 ;  suggestiveness  in, 
205-215. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wads- 
worth,  137,  185,  230 ;  his  SOH- 
net  on  Sumner,  230. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  105, 108, 

•  122, 124 ;  on  scholarship,  186 ; 
quotation  from,  186. 

Lucidity,  180-182. 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington, 


Lord,  on  Miss  Burney,  62 ;  65, 
79,  96,  131,  166  ;  quotation 
from,  62. 

Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  his  Life 
of  the  Bee,  111. 

Martineau,  Harriet,  103. 

Meredith,  George,  69;  his  ob 
scurity  of  expression,  180- 
182;  quotations  from,  180, 
181. 

Metaphors,  28-31. 

Mill,  John  Stuart,  a  suggestive 
sentence  of,  210. 

Milton,  John,  13,  74;  his  Lyci- 
das,  103 ;  his  Paradise  Lost, 
105 ;  begotten  of  the  classical 
tradition,  111 ;  115 ;  makes  no 
personal  appeal,  183, 184. 

Montaigne,  Michel  Eyquem  de, 
16,  58,  59,  217,  218  ;  quotation 
from,  59. 

Moody,  William  Vaughn,  156  ; 
his  poem  on  the  steam  en 
gine,  158,  159 ;  quotation 
from,  158, 159. 

Morley,  John,  his  definition  of 
literature,  10. 

Nature,  Thoreau's  interest  in, 
201,  202;  in  literature,  203, 
204. 

Newman,  John  Henry,  119. 

Nisard,  Jean  Marie  Napoleon 
Desire,  104. 

Obscurity  of  expression,  180- 
182. 

Occupation,  essential  to  hap 
piness,  249-256. 

Oriole,  174. 

Owl,  white,  175. 

Parkman,  Francis,  his  Oregon 
Trail,  226. 

Parnell,  Thomas,  220. 

Past,  the,  our  feeling  for,  232- 
243,  246. 

Pater,  Walter,  69,  70;  a  mere 
stylist,  189. 

Peacock,  176. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  7, 11 ;  his  art, 
17-19 ;  his  Raven,  17,  19,  138 ; 
his  Bells,  19,  138 ;  the  univer 
sality  of  his  art,  138 ;  his  An 
nabel  Lee,  138;  his  appeal 
only  to  the  sense  of  artis 
tic  forms  and  verbal  mel- 


INDEX 


263 


ody,  184, 185 ;  quotation  from, 
11. 

Poetry,  relation  of  eloquence 
to,  161-1G7  ;  the  elusive  in, 
204 ;  more  suggestive  than 
prose,  213.  See  also  Litera 
ture. 

Pope,  Alexander,  80,  203;  on 
friends,  240 ;  quotation  from, 
240. 

Protestantism,  125, 126. 

Quintilian,  43. 

Kabelais,  Francois,  132. 

Kaleigh,  Prof.  Walter,  on  the 
business  of  letters,  62;  his 
style,  63,  64 ;  65 ;  quotations 
from,  62-65. 

Hat,  water,  177. 

Heading,  understanding  and 
appreciation  in,  182-185 ;  the 
re-reading  of  books,  216-231. 

Kenan,  Ernest,  32,  50 ;  his  ob 
ject  as  a  writer,  65;  119;  his 
Future  of  Science,  161;  on 
eloquence  and  poetry,  161; 
190 ;  quotations  from,  50, 161, 
190. 

Kobertson,  John  M.,  his  Essays 
toward  a  Critical  Method, 
109. 

Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques,  55, 
56. 

Ruskin,  John,  5,  79,  90, 119, 123, 

144,  145, 147,  163 ;  quotations 
from,  144, 147. 

Sainte-Beuve,  Charles  Augus- 
tin,  6 ;  on  Montaigne's  meta 
phors,  16 ;  on  Rousseau's  Con 
fessions,  55;  73,  92-96;  as  a 
critic,  97,  112,  115,  118,  132, 

145,  146  ;  102,  104,  128,  132  ;  on 
moral  censure  in  criticism, 
145, 146 ;  quotations  from,  16, 
55, 145, 146. 

Saturday  Review,  The,  4. 

Scherer,  Edmond  Henri 
Adolphe,  80,  94,  96,  105, 132. 

Schiller,  his  Robbers,  138. 

Schopenhauer,  Arthur,  his  use 
of  analogy,  42,  43;  his  defi 
nition  of  Style,  60;  73,  234, 
243 ;  quotations  from,  60,  73, 
234. 

Science,  democracy  of,  110 ;  dis 


interestedness  Of,  134,  135; 
rarely  suggestive,  211. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  the  literary 
value  of  his  novels,  5,  6, 60, 
61 ;  the  eloquence  of  his  po 
etry,  166 ;  his  lack  of  under 
standing  of  Wordsworth, 
182, 183. 

Sears,  Lorenzo,  his  Methods 
and  Principles  of  Literary 
Criticism,  109. 

Shairp,  Principal  John  Camp 
bell,  91. 

Shakespeare,  William,  74 ;  Vol 
taire's  verdict  upon,  103 ;  de 
mocracy  of  his  art,  111 ;  136 ; 
the  highest  type  of  the  disin 
terested  artist,  144 ;  189 ;  his 
Sonnets,  208,  209,  211  ;  quota 
tions  from,  136, 212. 

Shakespeareana,  24. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,114,124. 

Smith,  Sydney,  26. 

Sparrow,  house  (Passer  do- 
mesticus),  175. 

Sparrow,  song  (Melospiza  me- 
lodia),  174. 

Sparrow,  vesper  (Pooecetes 
gramineus),  174. 

Spencer,  Herbert,  32,  59 ;  on 
the  philosophy  of  style,  71 ; 
his  style,  206;  quotations 
from,  32,  71. 

Stael,  Madame  de,  104. 

Steam  engine  in  recent  poetry, 
the,  158, 159. 

Stevenson,  Eobert  Louis,  3; 
his  Inland  Voyage,  227  ;  his 
Travels  with  a  Donkey,  227. 

Style,  value  of,  6-8 ;  a  quality 
of  mind,  14 ;  nature  of,  52, 53 ; 
personality  an  element  of, 
54-60 ;  of  the  Stylist,  61-67  ; 
unconsciousness  of  good,  68, 
69 ;  simplicity  of  good,  69- 
74;  in  conversation,  75-77; 
aristocracy  and  democracy 
in,  77 ;  variety  of,  78,  79. 

Stylist,  the,  62-67. 

Suggestiveness   in    literature, 

205-215. 
Swallow,  barn  (Hirundo  ery- 

throgastra),  173,  174. 
Swallow,   cliff   (Petrochelidon 

lunifrons),  173,  174. 
Swallow,  white-bellied,  or  tree 

(Tachycineta  bicolor),  174. 


264 


INDEX 


Swallows,  supposed  hiberna 
tion  of,  171-173;  feeding 
young  on  the  wing,  175. 

Swift,  chimney  (Chcetura  pela- 
gica), 174. 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles, 
19 ;  his  style,  66,  70,  71. 

Tacitus,  his  eloquence,  165. 

Taine,  Hippolyte  Adolphe,  104, 
105,  119;  a  stimulating  but 
not  disinterested  critic,  121, 
122 ;  142,  143. 

Taste,  lapses  of,  25,  26 ;  good 
and  bad,  116-118. 

Taylor,  Edward  Thompson 
(fi  Father  "),  163. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  19, 
114,  121 ;  universality  of  his 
art,  138, 139 ;  begotten  of  the 
feudal  spirit,  154 ;  his  Maud, 
161;  an  example  of  his  elo- 
•  quence,  166;  181,  184;  his 
Crossing  the  Bar,  227  ;  quo 
tation  from,  166. 

Thackeray,  William  Make 
peace,  the  title  of  his  Vanity 
Fair,  10,  11 ;  103. 

Thiers,  Louis  Adolphe,  119.     v 

Thoreau,  Henry  David,  30,  56, 
119;  his  wildness,  197-202  f 
his  enthusiasm  for  the  In 
dian,  198, 199 ;  the  Indian  in, 
199,  200;  his  search  for  the 
transcendental  in  nature, 
201,  202 ;  quotations  from, 
197-202. 

Titlark,  176. 

To  the  Rainbow,  166. 

Tolstoi,  Leo,  39,  90, 119,  121, 134, 
149,  155. 

Triggs,  Oscar  Lovell,  110. 

Universe,  the,  35-38. 

Villemain,  Abel  Fran9ois,  104. 

Vineyard,  preparing  a  new, 
254-256. 

Voltaire,  Fra^ois  Marie 
Arouet,  his  style,  69;  his 
verdict  upon  Shakespeare, 
103,  111 ;  144 ;  quotation  from, 
69. 

Waldstein,  Dr.  Louis,  his  The 
Sitbconscious  Self,  130,  141 ; 
quotations  from,  i41. 


Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry,  119> 
121. 

Water-rat,  177. 

Weather,  Gilbert  White's  ob 
servations  on  the,  177,  178. 

White,  Gilbert,  the  longevity 
of  his  book,  168 ;  homeliness 
of  his  book,  169;  its  human 
interest,  169,  170;  his  genu 
ineness,  170, 171 ;  his  person 
ality,  171  ;  a  type  of  the  true 
observer,  171 ;  his  observa 
tions  as  to  the  supposed 
hibernation  of  swallows, 
171-173 ;  examples  of  his  truly 
scientific  observations,  174- 
178  ,•  his  alertness  and  enthu 
siasm,  175-177 ;  a  magnet  for 
the  natural  lore  of  his  neigh 
borhood,  176 ;  his  observa 
tions  on  the  weather,  178 ;  his 
imitators,  179 ;  218 ;  quotations 
from,  170, 173-178. 

Whitman,  Walt,  his  published 
letters,  4;  24,  27  ;  on  style,  66 ; 
67,  75,  78,  99,  110 ;  his  respon 
sibility  to  aesthetic  princi 
ples,  117, 118, 119  ;  his  Leaves 
of  Grass,  129,  214;  155,  181, 
183,  184;  his  faith  and  opti 
mism,  185;  his  view  of  Na 
ture,  204;  his  Two  Rivulets, 
204 ;  on  the  elusive  in  poetry, 
204;  his  suggestiveness,  205, 
206,  214 ;  223,  227  ;  quotations 
from,  24,  27,  66,  75,  99, 204;  214. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  1; 
his  poetry,  18, 19 ;  137. 

Wilson,  Woodrow,  186. 

Woodpecker,  174. 

Wordsworth,  William,  19,  23, 
74,  115,  119,  124;  his  poetry 
more  personal  and  less  uni 
versal  than  Tennyson's,  138, 
139 ;  never  eloquent,  165 ;  181 ; 
his  attitude  toward  nature 
compared  with  Scott's,  182, 
183 ;  184,  204,  223,  228 ;  quota 
tions  from,  24,  141. 

Work,  essential  to  happiness, 
249-256. 

Worsfold,  W.  Basil,  his  Prin 
ciples  of  Criticism,  109. 

Zola,  Emile,  112 ;  his  exaggera 
tion  of  certain  tilings,  149, 
150. 


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